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AFTER   THE    PARDON 


Spring    Publications 

OF 

The  Stuyiresant  Press 

A  Woman  of  Uncertain  Age 

By  MARY  ANNE  BERRY 

After  The  Pardon 

By  MATILDE  SERAO 

The  Woman  Herself 

Anonjnnow 

The  Isle  of  Temptation 

By  ARTHUR  STANLEY  COLLETON 

The  Woman,  The  Man  and  The 

Monster 

By  CARLETON  DAWE 

The  Diary  of  a  Lost  One 

EA.  by  MARGARETE  BOHME 


All  the  above,    cloth,    1 2mo 

$1.50  each 


AFTER  THE  PARDON 


BY 

MATILDE  SERAO 


NEW  YORK 

THE  STUYVESANT   PRESS 

i909 


CopvmeHT,  X909,  BY 

Thb   Stuyvbsant   Press, 

Nbw  York. 


■     >  \.     ..     1     Ik--.     / 


FOREWARD 

In  this  romance,  the  author  has  vividly  pictured 
the  ravishing  fierceness  of  the  love  which  sways 
the  Latins  and  bends  them  to  its  desires.  Graphi- 
cally she  has  shown  how  their  passions  force  them 
beyond  all  laws  and  duties,  beyond  all  vows.  In 
them  the  emotional  nature  and  the  finer  intelli- 
gence are  ever  at  variance.  They  confuse  that 
rude  instinct  which  is  jealousy,  physical  and  base, 
with  the  higher  and  more  ardent  love — the  virile 
affirmation  of  possession  with  the  fresher,  more 
vigorous  desire  of  love's  happiness — ^but  this  does 
not  make  their  passions  more  trivial  nor  less 
consuming. 

The  author's  gifts  are  of  rare  quality.  She 
delves  alike  into  the  souls  of  her  characters  and 
into  their  more  animal  humanity,  and  contrasts 
their  weaknesses  with  their  strength  in  a  striking 
manner. 

The  story  is  of  the  intensest  interest. 

F.  F. 


M808^GJ^ 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 


rAcx 


SOLIS  OCCASU 7 

PART    II 
The  Pardon  .        .        .        .        ,        ,        ,      8i 

PART   III 
UsQiJE  AD  Mortem 245 


To  that  glorious  soul 
ELEONORA  DUSE 


AFTER   THE    PARDON 

PART   I 
SOUS   OCCASU 

I 

Donna  Maria  Guasco  Simonetti,  gracefully 
stretched  on  the  sofa  and  immersed  in  the  many 
soft  cushions  of  all  kinds  of  fabrics  and  colours, 
was  reading  alone.  A  steady  light,  opalised  by 
the  clear  transparent  silk  of  a  large  shade,  was 
diffused  from  the  tall  pedestal  at  her  side,  on  which 
was  placed  a  quaint  lamp  of  chased  silver,  so  that 
the  reader's  head,  with  her  thick  mass  of  chestnut 
hair,  attired  almost  in  harmony  with  its  natural 
lines  in  broad  waves  and  rich  braids,  received 
exactly  the  clearness  of  the  light. 

The  pale  face,  slightly  rosy  beneath  the  fineness 
of  its  complexion,  the  large  eyes  bent  over  the  read- 
ing, the  little  composed  mouth,  without  smile  but 
without  bitterness,  were  delicately  illuminated. 
The  soft,  opaque  silk,  of  a  sheenless  silver,  of  her 
dress  of  exquisite  style,  blended  itself  with  the 
colour  of  the  cushions,  while  the  soft  fleecy  lace 


8  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

which  adorned  the  dress  seemed  a  sort  of  super- 
fluity of  the  large  sofa.  Amidst  stuff  and  lace  the 
feet  peeped  out  in  shoes  of  gold  cloth,  slightly 
peculiar  and  bright,  the  caprice  of  a  lady  in  her 
own  home. 

She  was  reading  alone,  and  the  slow  rustling  of 
the  pages,  which  she  turned  with  a  gentle  move- 
ment, alone  broke  the  silence  of  the  room. 

The  tiny  clock  on  a  small  table  at  her  side 
tinkled  clearly,  striking  half-past  nine.  Donna 
Maria  started  slightly,  gave  a  rapid  glance  at  the 
clock,  and,  from  a  long  habit  of  solitude,  said  to 
herself  almost  aloud— 

**  Always  later,  always  a  little  later.** 

Suppressing  a  sigh  of  impatience,  and  shrugging 
her  beautiful  shoulders,  she  resumed  her  reading. 
Her  fine  sense  of  hearing  told  her  that  outside  in 
the  hall  the  lock  of  the  front  door  was  rattling, 
and  a  slight  blush  rose  to  her  cheeks  and  fore- 
head. 

A  servant  knocked  at  the  door,  entered  without 
waiting  for  a  reply,  and  silently  offered  the  evening 
papers  on  a  tray.  She  took  them  and  placed  them 
on  the  small  table,  scarcely  bestowing  a  glance  on 
him  as  he  withdrew  discreetly.  Then,  all  of  a 
sudden,  a  kind  of  spasm  of  grief,  of  anger  and 
of  annoyance,  contracted  her  pure  countenance, 
and  with  a  half-angry,  and  yet  suppressed  cry,  shs 
exclaimed — 

"How  annoying!     How  annoying!** 


SOLIS   OCCASU  9 

The  book  fell  down.  Donna  Maria  arose,  ex- 
posing her  tall,  lithe  figure,  full  of  noble  grace. 
The  harmony  of  a  body  not  slender  but  comfort- 
ably covered,  added  to  the  pleasing  maturity  of 
thirty  years,  undulated  in  the  silk  dress  with  a 
slight  rustling  as  she  went  to  the  balcony,  and 
lifting  the  heavy  lace  curtains  looked  through  the 
clear  glass  into  the  street. 

The  majestic  piazza  of  Santa  Maria  Maggiore 
stretched  before  her  eyes  as  far  as  the  steps  of  the 
great  basilica  with  its  lofty  closed  doors,  while  the 
vastness  of  the  piazza  and  the  architectural 
grandeur  of  the  temple  were  bathed  on  that  June 
night  by  the  soft  brightness  of  the  moon.  The 
passers-by  were  few  and  scattered,  little  black 
shadows  cast  on  the  roads  and  footpaths  of  the 
square.  Then  an  electric  tram,  coming  from  the 
via  Cavour,  crossed  the  square,  desecrating  for  a 
moment  the  Roman  scene,  where  faith  and  the 
Church  had  placed  one  of  their  most  enduring  and 
ancient  manifestations,  and  suddenly  disappeared 
into  the  other  artery  of  the  via  Cavour. 

The  woman  gazed  at  that  almost  deserted  space, 
at  the  immense  solitary  church,  rendered  cold  by 
the  light  of  the  moon,  and  the  solitude  of  her 
desolate  spirit  and  desolate  heart  became  more  pro- 
found and  intense. 

"  Mary,"  said  a  voice  at  her  shoulder. 

She  turned  suddenly.  The  young  man  who  had 
called  her  took  her  two  hands  and  kissed  them  one 


lo  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

after  the  other  with  tender  gallantry,  and  while  she 
bent  her  head  with  a  smile  he  kissed  her  eyes  with 
a  soft  caress. 

"  It  is  a  little  late,**  he  said,  excusing  himself. 

*'  It  wants  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  ten,"  replied 
Maria  precisely.  He  looked  at  his  watch  and 
added — 

**  Perhaps  your  watch  is  fast?** 

**  Perhaps,'*  she  replied,  as  if  to  break  off  the 
discussion. 

She  sat  down,  and  the  young  man,  taking  a  low 
chair,  his  usual  seat,  placed  himself  beside  her. 
Taking  her  hand  loosely  he  began  to  play  a  little 
with  her  fingers,  toying  distractedly  with  the  rings 
with  which  they  were  loaded. 

''  .  .  .  m'aimes?''  said  Maria,  in  an  almost 
childish  French  fashion,  but  in  a  voice  without 
tone  or  colour. 

**  .  .  .  Vaime,''  he  replied  childishly,  and  rather 
perfunctorily.  Having,  as  it  were,  accomplished  a 
small  preliminary  duty  of  conversation  they  were 
silent. 

She  looked  at  him,  and  noticed  that  he  was  in 
evening  dress,  and  in  his  button-hole  were  some 
carnations  which  she  had  given  him  in  the  morn- 
ing. Marco  Fiore*s  slightly  delicate  appearance 
was  aided  by  these  garments  of  society.  His  person 
gained  freedom  from  a  certain  thinness  more  ap- 
parent than  real.  His  face  was  a  little  too  pallid, 
with  deep-black  hair  and  moustaches ;  the  lips  were 


SOLIS    OCCASU  II 

fresh  and  strong.  The  eyes,  which  were  extremely 
soft,  with  a  fascinating  softness,  had  every  now 
and  then  something  feminine  in  them.  But  there 
was  nothing  feminine  in  the  gleams  of  passion 
which  kept  crossing  them  in  waves,  nor  was  there 
anything  feminine  in  the  generality  of  the  lines, 
where  firmness  and  even  obstinacy  were  prominent. 
Two  or  three  times,  to  break  the  silence,  he  kissed 
her  slender  fingers. 

**  Are  you  going  out,  Marco?"  she  asked  in  that 
decided  voice  of  hers,  which  required  a  precise  and 
direct  reply. 

*'  Yes,  for  a  moment  or  two.  ...  I  am  obliged 
to,'*  Marco  insinuated. 

**  Where?" 

*'  To  the  English  Embassy,  Mary." 

**  Is  there  a  reception?" 

**  Yes,  the  last  of  the  season,"  he  explained,  as 
if  to  clear  up  his  obligation  for  going. 

Again  there  was  a  silence.  Maria  sat  with 
her  two  jewelled  hands  clasped  over  her  knees 
among  the  silken  folds  of  opaque  silver,  as  if  in 
a  dream. 

*'  Once  upon  a  time  I  was  a  great  friend  of  Lady 
Clairville." 

**  And  now?"  Marco  asked  absent-mindedly. 

Suddenly  he  repented  of  the  remark.  Maria's 
large  eyes,  proud  and  ardent,  were  veiled  in  tears. 

**  Now  no  longer,"  she  said,  still  as  if  in  a 
dream. 


12  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  It  is  you  who  avoid  her,"  he  said,  trying  to 
repair  the  mischief. 

**  It  is  I,  yes,"  she  said,  awakening  suddenly, 
in  a  clear  voice.  '*  I  did  not  wish  her  to  cut  me. 
The  English  are  faithful,  I  know.  But  still  she  is 
an  ambassadress  and  sees  lots  of  people,  even  bad 
people." 

He  shook  his  head  melancholily,  as  if  he 
thought,  "What  is  to  be  done?  These  are  fatal 
matters  to  discuss." 

*'  And  you,  Marco,  why  are  you  going?"  Maria 
questioned,  with  an  increase  of  hardness. 

**  My  mother  is  going  there,  so " 

**  But  she  has  your  sister-in-law  for  company?" 

**  Yes,  Beatrice  is  accompanying  her;  but  both 
have  no  escort." 

**  Is  your  brother  Giulio  away  ?" 

"Yes,  he  is  at  Spello." 

They  remained  silent  for  a  while. 

"I  am  sure,"  resumed  Maria,  "you  will  meet 
some  one  at  the  English  Embassy." 

"Whoever,  Maria?" 

"  Vittoria  Casalta,  your  iormer  fiancee y  the  sister 
of  your  sister-in-law,"  and  an  accent  more  ironical 
than  disdainful  pointed  the  sentence. 

"  No,  Maria,"  he  said,  at  once  becoming  serious. 

"What  is  this  'No,'  Marco?"  and  she  smiled 
more  sarcastically;  "what  are  you  denying?" 

"  That  Vittoria  Casalta  is  going  to  the  English 
Embassy,  Mary." 


SOLIS   OCCASU  13 

**  Ah,  you  know  that  she  is  not  going  there!'* 
and  she  laughed  bitterly. 

"  Don't  torment  yourself,  don't  torment  me,  dear 
soul!"  he  said  softly,  tenderly  drawing  her  to 
himself  with  his  conquering  sweetness  and  gentle 
grace. 

Donna  Maria  let  herself  be  drawn  to  him,  no 
longer  smiling,  as  if  expecting  some  word  or 
action.  But  neither  action  nor  word  came.  After 
the  tender  admonition,  as  usual,  a  certain  dryness 
rendered  them  dumb  and  motionless. 

She,  as  usual,  was  the  first  to  interrupt  this  state 
of  mind. 

**  And  then,  Marco,  how  do  you  know  that  the 
fair  Vittoria  is  not  going  to  Lady  Clairville's?" 

**  Because  she  no  longer  goes  into  society, 
Maria." 

*'  Has  she  taken  the  veil?"  she  exclaimed,  with 
a  sarcastic  smile. 

"Almost.  For  that  matter  she  never  has  loved 
the  world." 

"  Perhaps  she  flies  from  you,  Marco?" 

*'  Yes,  I  believe  she  flies  from  me." 

**  I  tell  you  Vittoria  Casalta  still  loves  you," 
Maria  murmured  slowly  as  if  she  were  speaking  to 
herself,  as  if  she  were  repeating  to  herself  a  thing 
said  many  timrs. 

**No,"  said  Marco  vivaciously. 

"She  still  loves  you,"  the  woman  rtpeated 
authoritatively,  almost  imperiously. 


14  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  There  is  only  one  woman  who  loves  me,  and 
she  is  you,  Mary — you,"  he  replied,  as  if  to  finish 
the  discussion. 

She  listened  attentively  from  the  very  first  words 
of  the  sentence,  attentively  as  if  to  find  in  them  a 
trace  or  a  recollection  of  past  things,  but  she  did 
not  hear  there  quite  what  she  wished.  The  words 
were  the  same,  but  the  voice  was  no  longer  the 
same  which  pronounced  them,  and  no  longer  the 
same,  perhaps,  was  the  man  who  said  them.  A 
sense  of  delusion  for  an  instant,  only  for  an  in- 
stant, was  depicted  on  her  face;  an  expression, 
however,  which  he  did  not  notice. 

*'  I  have  never  understood,  Marco,"  she  resumed 
in  a  grave  voice,  **  if  you  loved  this  Vittoria  Casalta 
seriously." 

**  What  does  it  matter  now?"  he  exclaimed,  a 
little  vexed. 

"  No,  it  doesn't  matter,  itls  true.  Still,  I  should 
have  liked  to  have  heard  it  from  you." 

**  How  many  times  have  you  asked  this, 
Mary?"  he  said,  between  reproof  and  increasing 
vexation. 

**  Also  you  have  asked  me  pretty  often,  Marco, 
if  I  ever  loved  my  husband,"  she  retorted  disdain- 
fully. 

At  such  a  reminder  the  countenance  of  Marco 
Fiore  became  convulsed.  Every  slightly  feminine 
trace  disappeared  from  his  rather  pale  and  delicate 
face,  and  the  firm  and  obstinate  lines  of  his  profile 


SOLIS   OCCASU  15 

and  chin  became  more  accentuated,  manly  and 
rough.     His  lips  trembled  as  he  spoke. 

**  Why  do  you  name  your  husband?  Why  do 
you  name  him,  Maria?" 

**  Because  he  is  not  dead,  Marco;  because  he 
exists,  because  he  lives,"  she  proclaimed  imperi- 
ously, her  large  eyes  flashing. 

**  I  hate  him.  Don't  speak  !o  me  of  him  !"  he 
exclaimed  with  agitation,  rising  and  kicking  the 
chair  aside  to  walk  about. 

*'  But  why  do  you  hate  him?  Why?  Tell  me, 
tell  me." 

**  Because  he  is  the  only  man  of  whom  I  can  be, 
of  whom  I  ought  to  be,  jealous,  Maria,"  he  ex- 
claimed, beside  himself  with  exasperation.  Then 
Maria  smiled  joyfully,  a  smile  which  he  did  not 
observe. 

*'  I  renounced  him,  his  name  and  his  fortune  for 
you,"  she  replied  simply. 

"Do  you  regret  it?"  he  asked,  still  hot  with 
anger,  but  somewhat  distractedly. 

**  I  do  not  regret  it,"  she  replied,  after  an  imper- 
ceptible moment  of  hesitation. 

'*  But,  Maria,  I  am  sure  he  regrets  you  very 
much." 

**No." 

**  I  am  as  certain  as  if  he  had  told  me,  and  I  am 
certain  he  will  get  you  back,  Maria."     - 

**No." 

**  Yes,  he  will  get  you  back." 


i6  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  Covering  himself  with  shame?" 

*'  Yes,  because  he  loves  you." 

**  Covering  himself  with  ridicule  ." 

**  He  loves  you,  he  loves  you.'* 

**  Knowing  that  I  do  not  love  him." 

**  What  does  that  matter?  He  will  take  you 
back  to  try  to  make  you  love  him." 

*'  This  is  madness." 

**  All  those  who  love  are  mad,"  murmured 
Marco  Fiore  very  sadly. 

Stupefied  and  suffering,  she  looked  at  him.  Each 
looked  at  the  other  as  if  to  recognise  themselves. 
They  were  the  same  who,  strangely,  every  day  and 
every  evening,  scarcely  found  themselves  together 
without,  after  a  few  minutes,  involuntarily  irritat- 
ing with  curious  and  cruel  fingers  the  old  wounds 
which  seemed  to  be  healing,  which  their  restless 
and  disturbed  minds  caused  to  bleed  again. 

Here  she  was.  Donna  Maria  Guasco  Simonetti, 
graceful  and  exquisite,  she  who  had  been  the  object 
of  a  thousand  desires,  repulsed  by  her  serene 
austerity  and  boundless  pride,  who  had  suddenly 
loved  Marco  Fiore  madly  and  faithfully  for  three 
years.  Here  she  was  in  that  house  where  she  had 
come  to  live  alone,  after  abandoning  the  conjugal 
abode  for  three  years,  to  live  apart  in  a  strange, 
constant  and  ardent  love,  forgetful  of  every  other 
thing.  Here  she  was,  ever  more  graceful  in  the 
plenitude  of  her  womanly  grace,  in  the  atmo- 
sphere of  exclusive   luxury   with   which   she   was 


SOLIS   OCCASU  17 

surr#unde3,  and  in  garments  which  reflfcted  her 
fascination. 

And  the  man,  Marco  Fiore,  young,  trembling 
with  life,  who  had  come  there  that  evening,  an  im- 
passioned lover  who  had  not  tolerated  sharing  the 
woman  of  his  love  with  the  husband,  he  had  not 
fallen  at  her  feet,  infatuated  as  usual  by  his  mortal 
infatuation ;  he  had  not  taken  her  to  his  arms  to 
press  her  to  himself,  to  kiss  her  as  his  own. 

Instead  they  had  given  themselves,  as  for  some 
time,  to  a  sad  duel  of  words,  sometimes  sarcastic, 
sometimes  angry,  evoking  the  absent  figures  of  the 
two  betrayed,  of  Vittoria  Casalta,  Marco's  be- 
trothed, of  Emilio  Guasco,  the  husband  of  Donna 
Maria. 

Both  tried  to  subdue  themselves.  She  crossed 
the  quiet  room,  and  adjusted  some  knick-knacks  on 
the  pianoforte,  which  was  covered  with  a  peculiar 
flowered  fabric,  her  profile  was  bent  slightly  in  a 
pleasing  way  beneath  the  dense  shadow  of  her 
magnificent  hair. 

Marco  opened  a  cigarette,  case,  and  asked,  with 
a  voice  already  become  expressionless — 

**May  I  smoke?'* 

**  Do  smoke." 

**  Would  you  like  a  cigarette  ?'* 

*'  No,  Marco." 

She  returned  to  the  sofa,  throwing  herself  down 
gently,  and  drawing  under  her  head  a  cushion  to 
support  her  mass  of  hair.    So  they  remained  for  a 

2 


i8  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

while,  he  smoking  his  cigarette  slowly,  and  she 
looking  at  a  distant  part  of  the  room,  her  hands 
stretched  along  her  body. 

**  Have  you  found  some  place  for  us,  Marco,  f«r 
August?" 

**  I  am  very  uncertain,"  he  murmured.  *'  In 
whatever  holiday  place  one  goes,  however  far 
away,  one  meets  people." 

'*  Far  too  many,"  she  added. 

'*  You  don't  wish  to  meet  any  one?" 

*'  That  is  so;   I  should  like  not  to." 

"  It  is  impossible,  Mary." 

"  People  always  make  me  suffer  so." 

"Why,  dear?" 

**  I  don't  know." 

After  an  instant  he  resumed  quietly — 

**  Let  us  remain  in  Rome." 

She  trembled,  and  raised  her  eyebrows  slightly. 

*'  In  Rome?     In  Rome  in  August?" 

"If  we  can't  go  anywhere  else,"  he  added, 
without  noticing  Maria's  surprise. 

'*  You  renounce  the  holiday  and  travelling  which 
we  have  had  every  year,  Marco  !  Do  you  renounce 
them  willingly?" 

**  Willingly,"  he  replied,  with  complete  resigna- 
tion. 

Why  did  he  not  look  her  in  the  face  ?  He  would 
have  seen  the  lines  discompose  under  the  wave  of 
bitterness  which  invaded  them,  and  then  suddenly 
with  heroic  force  recompose  themselves.     Instead, 


SOLIS   OCCASU  19 

he  only  heard  a  proud,  cold  voice  which  accepted 
the  renunciation. 

**  Let  us  remain  in  Rome.** 

The  hard,  sharp  compact  which  annulled  one  of 
their  best  dreams,  and  destroyed  one  of  their  in- 
tensest  joys,  was  subscribed  without  any  further 
observation. 

He  resumed  with  a  little  difficulty. 

**  Later  on,  in  September,  mamma  wants  me." 

**  Where,  then?'* 

**  At  Spello,  you  know,  at  our  place,  where  she 
passes  the  autumn.** 

**  I  know.  You  have  gone  there  every  year  for 
some  days;  last  year  for  ten  days.*' 

*'  This  year  I  ought  to  stay  some  days  longer.*' 

**^How  many  days  longer?" 

"  Two  weeks,  perhaps  two  or  three." 

As  usual,  on  words  which  he  feared  would  dis- 
plefase  her  Marco  placed  a  courteous  hesitation. 
He  was  never  precise.  He  sought  always  to  render 
the  conversation  more  vague  with  a  sweet  smile. 

Maria  did  not  fall  into  the  deception,  and 
replied  clearly — 

**  But  three  weeks  are  not  the  same  as  two, 
Marco." 

**They  are  not  the  same,  it  is  true.  I  will  try 
to^horten  them." 

"^'Why  remain  so  long?**' 

"My  mother  requires  assistance  this  year;  my. 
brother  Giulio  is  unable  to  give  her  any.     I  don  . 


20  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

like  to  say  it,  but  my  mother  is  getting  older. 
The  business  of  the  house  is  heavy  :  there  are  so 
many  things  to  regulate  and  decide.  In  fact,  I 
neglect  my  mother  a  little.** 

**  Stop  three  weeks  then,*'  she  said,  lowering  her 
eyelids  to  hide  the  flash  of  her  proud  eyes. 

**  And  you  ?  What  will  you  do  in  September  in 
Rome  alone?'* 

"  I  shall  do  what  I  can,"  she  said,  throwing  hei 
head  back  among  the  cushions. 
,   "  Poor  Mary,**  he  said  slowly.  . 

There  was  so  much  lack  of  comfort  in  those  two 
words,  so  much  empty  sorrow;  in  fact,  a  pity  so 
sterile,  that  she  broke  in — 

'*  Don*t  pity  me,  Marco;  I  don*t  like  you  to  pity 
me. 

**  Does  everything  offend  you,  then,  Mary?"  he 
exclaimed,  surprised. 

**  Pity  above  everything  ofi'ends  me — every  one'5 
pity;  but  your  pity  offers  me  an  atrocious  offence." 

**  You  are  very  proud,  Maria.** 

"  Very,  Marco.'* 

**  Will  nothing  ever  conquer  this  fatal  pride  of 
yours?** 

**  Nothing,  no  one.  No  one  except  myself,  and 
not  even  I  myself.*' 

"  Pride  causes  weeping,  Mary." 

"  It  is  true;  but  very  seldom  have  human  eyes 
seen  my  tears,"  she  said  conclusively. 

He  felt  that  evening,  as  on  so  many  others,  that 


SOLIS   OCCASU  21 

never  more  would  they  find,  if  not  the  flame  of 
passion,  eveJi  the  penetrating  sweetness  of  loving 
companionship.  The  beautiful  and  beloved  woman 
was  near  him.  They  were  together,  alone  and 
free,  alone  and  masters  of  every  movement  of  the 
mind  and  action  of  the  body ;  but  some  mysterious 
obstacle  had  been  interposed  between  them^  whence 
all  beauty,  love,  liberty  and  consent  were  in  vain. 

Maria  had  before  her  the  man  she  loved,  with  all 
his  attractive  appearance,  with  all  the  charms  of 
youth  and  health,  with  all  his  seductiveness  of 
mind,  and  this  man  was  there  in  the  name  of  an 
invincible  transport,  and  ought  to  be  and  could  be 
hers  in  every  hour  of  her  life.  Yet  nothing  came 
of  it,  just  as  if  a  wanton,  and  deliberately  wanton, 
hand  were  destroying  this  flower  and  fruit  of  love. 

Of  the  two,  Marco  Fiore  seemed  to  be  yielding 
feebly  to  this  obstacle  which  was  intruding  itself 
between  them  :  he  was  passive,  a  little  morbid,  and 
easily  resigned.  Maria  Guasco,  however,  proud 
and  combative,  was  fighting  and  endeavouring  to 
conquer  the  infamous  hand  which  was  plucking  in 
the  dark  all  the  roses  of  their  passion.  She,  on 
the  other  hand,  allowed  herself  to  be  conquered  only 
at  the  last. 

**  Why  don't  you  go  now?''  she  said  anxiously. 

*'  Do  you  believe  I  ought  to?" 

**  Yes,  it  is  nearly  eleven.  If  you  waat  to  return 
here  afterwards,"  she  added,  **you  will  make  me 
wait  up  rather  too  long." 


22  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

He  raised  his  eyebrows  as  if  he  experienced  some 
difficulty  in  breathing  or  speaking. 

'*  Well  .  .  .  afterwards  I  should  like  to  return 
home  with  Beatrice  and  mamma.'* 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed  at  this  blow,  without 
further  observation. 

They  became  silent.  He  bent  his  head  with  that 
aspect  of  accustoming  himself  to  a  thing  which  had 
to  occur,  which  had  been  usual  with  him  for 
some  time.  She,  instead,  raised  hers  with  that 
ever  renascent  pride  which  scorched  her  soul,  and 
at  last  succeeded  in  smiling. 

'*  But  what  will  you  do  afterwards  at  home, 
Marco?" 

''  I  shall  go  to  bed.     I  am  a  little  tired." 

**  Tired  of  what?" 

**  Why,  I  don't  know.  I  have  a  curious  physical 
weariness." 

*'  You  should  let  a  doctor  examine  you." 

"  Do  you  think  so?     Rest  heals  everything." 

"It  is  true.  Do  you  remember  the  time  when 
you  were  unable  to  go  to  sleep  without  having 
written  me  a  letter?" 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  he  said  surprised;  "but 
when  was  that?" 

"  It  was  before — before  we  lived  together,"  she 
replied,  with  a  slight  trembling  of  the  lips. 

"  Some  time  ago,"  he  said  simply,  without  mean- 
ing it. 

He  got  up  to  go.     He  took  her  two  hands  in  his 


SOLIS   OCCASU  23 

and  pressed  them  with  an  infantile  caress  over  his 
face,  minutely  kissing  their  soft  and  fragrant  palms, 
and,  as  she  lowered  her  head,  instead  of  kissing 
her  eyes  as  when  he  came  in,  his  kisses  were  im- 
mersed in  the  dark  and  odorous  waves  of  her  hair. 

"  To-morrow,  then,  Marco,"  she  whispered, 
raising  her  head. 

"  To-morrow  certainly,  Maria,"  he  replied. 

She  accompanied  him  for  two  or  three  steps, 
almost  to  the  door.  Then  she  stopped  for  still  a 
look  or  a  word. 

'*  Toujours?*^  she  asked. 

**  Tou jours,''  he  replied. 

Their  voices  were  monotonous  and  colourless, 
and  their  faces  inexpressive  as  they  pronounced  the 
usual  words  of  farewell,  now  three  years  old. 


II 

All  was  quiet  in  Rome  when  Marco  Fiore 
returned  home  to  the  ancient  Palazzo  Fiore  in  the 
via  Bocca  di  Leone.  His  mother  and  sister-in- 
law  had  returned  from  the  reception  at  the  Eng- 
lish Embassy  before  him.  Donna  Arduina  Fiore 
and  Donna  Beatrice  Fiore  had,  in  fact,  left  with- 
out looking  for  him,  supposing  that  he  had  re- 
turned to  the  lonely  lady  in  the  silent  little  villa 
at  Santa  Maria  Maggiore.  Instead,  he  had 
allowed  himself  to  wander  here  and  there  among 
the  well-dressed  crowd  in  the  smaller  reception- 
rooms  to  converse  haphazardly  with  friends, 
married  women  and  girls,  conversations  which, 
with  a  smile  and  a  laugh,  nearly  always  bore  an 
allusion  to  his  condition  as  a  man  chained  firmly 
and  for  ever,  as  a  man  exiled  voluntarily  from 
society,  and  deprived  of  all  intercourse  with  light 
loves  and  flirtations. 

At  a  direct  allusion  to  Maria  Guasco,  the  woman 

who  had  behaved  with  such  marvellous  audacity  in 

a  hypocritical  society,  he  lowered  his  eyes  with  a 

slight  smile   and   did   not   reply.     If   the   allusion 

was  too  unkind  to  the  absent  one,  to  her  who  had 

thr#wn  everything  on  the  pyre  to  be  able  to  love 

24 


SOLIS   OCCASU  25 

him  in  liberty  and  beauty,  his  face  became  serious. 
Anyhow,  the  conversation  languished  after  such 
an  insinuation  or  was  broken  off,  and  suddenly  he 
felt  himself  estranged  and  far  away  from  that 
society,  which  nevertheless  was  his  own,  from  the 
people  who  belonged  to  his  set  and  perhaps  to  his 
race.  To  have  lived  three  years  apart  from  them 
was  sufficient  to  break  the  tie. 

But  that  evening  amidst  such  profound  elegance, 
among  the  most  beautiful  Roman  and  foreign 
women  and  the  most  celebrated  men,  it  seemed  to 
him  as  if  like  had  found  like,  and  that  the  other 
Marco  Fiore,  he  of  three  years  ago,  was  living 
again.  When  two  or  three  times  his  friends  had 
smiled  intentionally  at  his  secret  marriage,  as  they 
called  it,  a  feeling  of  annoyance  and  oppression 
had  tormented  him.  A  moral  and  perhaps  physical 
agitation  kept  showing  him  the  silent  room  at 
Santa  Maria  Maggiore  where  the  solitary  woman 
was  waiting  for  him,  and  he  no  longer  saw  Maria 
Guasco  in  her  proud  and  passionate  beauty,  re- 
fulgent with  a  powerful  and  charming  love,  but  in 
her  imperious  aspect  and  indomitable  pride,  as  a 
soul  which  had  given  up  everything  for  ever  and 
which  wished  for  everything.  The  weight  of  his 
amorous  chain  crushed  his  heart,  as  he  left  the 
imposing  rooms  of  the  English  Embassy. 

However,  when  he  found  himself  in  his  own 
room,  in  Palazzo  Fiore,  one  of  those  old  rooms 
with  lofty  ceilings  and  furniture  exclusively  old; 


26  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

when  among  the  shadows  and  bizarre  half-shadows 
he  looked  distractedly  at  the  four  or  five  portraits 
of  Mary  Guasco,  which  were  mixed  among  the 
beautiful  and  costly  ornaments  adorning  the  table 
and  bookshelves;  when  he  had  noticed  one  of 
her  by  his  pillow,  dressed  simply  in  a  travelling 
costume  with  a  little  hat  on  the  abundance  of  flow- 
ing hair,  a  portrait  in  which  she  seemed  to  walk 
absorbed  and  ecstatic  towards  an  ideal  aim — in 
truth  that  aim  had  been  love,  and  the  portrait  had 
been  taken  on  their  first  journey,  in  fact  during 
their  flight — Marco  Fiore  trembled  as  if  under  a 
severe  shock,  and  his  heart  melted  towards  her. 

Her  image,  not  from  scattered  portraits,  but 
from  the  depth  of  his  soul  where  it  w^as  impressed, 
rose  to  his  eyes  with  all  the  allurements  of  love,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  confused  in  a  mortal,  incurable 
sadness.  Tears  were  rising  in  the  eyes  of  the 
ardent,  sorrowing  image,  consumed  by  its  secret 
flame,  tears  which  he  had  SO  seldom  seen  in  reality. 
The  fascination  of  a  vision  more  subjugating  than 
any  form  of  tangible  life !  Marco  Fiore's  heart 
began  to  melt,  seeing  Maria  weeping  in  his 
dream,  and  an  immense  regret  and  remorse  over- 
powered him,  because  by  every  movement  and 
deed  of  his  he  had  caused  her  sadness  that  even- 
ing, because  he  had  not  spoken  a  single  word  of 
love  to  her,  because  he  had  not  yielded  to  her 
timid  and  impassioned  invitation  to  return  to  her 
after    midnight,   as   be   had   always   done   in   the 


SOLIS   OCCASU  27 

past;  because  she  was  there  in  her  room  alone  with 
the  sorrow  ©f  her  abandonment  and  desertion.  For 
a  short  time  Marco  had  no  peace  thinking  of  his 
involuntary  coldness  and  cruelty,  and  he  experi- 
enced an  irresistible  desire  to  go  out,  to  go  to 
Mary,  to  throw  himself  at  her  feet. 

"  I  will  go,"  he  said  to  himself,  starting  up. 

But  he  did  not  pass  the  threshold  of  his  room. 
The  flow  of  bitterness  and  repentance  ceased  and 
composed  itself  slowly  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart, 
which  became  all  at  once  mysteriously  calm.  He 
meditated  on  his  sudden  appearance  at  Maria';^ 
house  when  she  was  no  longer  expecting  him, 
when  perhaps  she  was  asleep.  Perhaps  Maria  on 
that  evening  had  not  even  wept  as  his  vision  had 
showed  him,  or  perhaps  her  tears  had  been  dried 
by  her  pride.  How  cold  and  sharp  she  had  been 
with  him  !  Wfth  what  delight  she  had  tortured 
him,  and  afterwards  had  aroused,  cleverly  and 
cruelly,  his  jealousy  !  With  w-hat  calmness  and 
iciness  she  had  accepted  all  he  had  scarcely  dared 
to  tell  her  ''^or  fear  of  crucifying  her :  the  August 
without  travelling  or  holiday-making,  and  the 
September  separated  and  far  away  !  How  in  her 
pride  she  had  spurned  his  tender  pity  ! 

Marco  Fiore  did  not  leave  his  room.  His  good 
impulse  had  fallen,  his  remorse  had  dissolved,  and 
his  dream  of  amorous  consolation  and  human 
compassion  had  vanished.  A  great  aridness 
spread  itself  over  him.     He  was  without  desires, 


28  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

without  hope  or  plans.     Marians  portraits  around 
him  spoke  no  more  to  him,  and  before  closing  his 
eyes  in   sleep  he  looked  at  them  as  strange  and 
unknown  figures,  as  figures  indifferent  to  him. 
*  *  *  *  ^  * 

A  long  absorption  of  thoughts  held  the  woman 
who  was  left  alone  stretched  among  the  cushions. 

Twice  her  little  clock  struck  the  hour,  but  she 
did  not  heed  it.  The  book  had  fallen  on  the 
ground  and  had  not  been  picked  up,  the  little  chair 
where  Marco  had  sat  had  not  been  moved  from 
beside  her,  and  in  the  air  the  subtle  smell  of 
cigarettes  remained,  while  on  the  ash-tray  on  the 
little  table  there  were  some  ashes.  Amidst  so 
much  testimony  of  a  vanished  hour,  which  had 
spoken  its  word  of  truth,  she  immersed  herself  in 
the  hidden  passion  of  her  tumultuous  and  ecstatic 
soul.  Only  the  light  step  of  her  maid  roused  her, 
a  pale  and  sleepy  young  woman,  who  w^as  trying 
to  keep  her  eyes  open  and  conceal  her  weariness. 

'*  Am  I  to  wait  for  the  master?"  she  asked 
in  a  subdued  voice,  as  if  fearing  to  wake  her 
mistress. 

"  No,  go  to  bed,"  replied  Donna  Maria  pre- 
cisely. 

*'  If  Your  Excellency  is  going  to  wait,  I  will 
wait  too." 

"  No,  the  master  will  not  return." 

**Ah,"  said  the  other,  lowering  her  eyes,  and 
after  saying  good-night  she  left. 


SOLIS   OCCASU  29 

At  last  Donna  Maria  arose  and  rapidly  passed 
into  the  salotto,  another  room  where  she  had  placed 
her  books,  pictures,  and  writing-table,  and  where 
she  used  to  pass  the  morning  when  she  did  not 
go  out,  and  quickly  entered  the  bedroom.  A 
night-light  was  burning  there  subduedly,  and  a 
fresh  fragrance  impregnated  the  .air.  Everything 
was  there  in  the  familiar  and  caressing  half-light. 
Like  a  shadow  Donna  Maria  walked  up  and  down 
her  room,  without  stopping  or  touching  anything, 
as  if  she  were  looking  for  something  and  really  did 
not  care  to  look  for  it. 

She  trembled,  and  sometimes  stopped  as  if  at 
the  noise  of  steps. 

With  its  counterpane  of  old  flowered  brocade, 
fringed  with  gold  lace  and  turned  down,  the  bed"* 
was  made  and  glistened  whitely  with  its  sheets  and 
lace. 

All  at  once  she  discovered  what  she  wanted. 
Her  expert  hands  opened  the  drawer  of  a  little 
inlaid  cabinet  near  the  bed,  and  fumbled  there  till 
she  found  and  drew  out  a  small  object.  It  was  a 
little  diary,  but  she  was  unable  to  read  the  -small 
pages  as  she  turned  them  over.  She  came  nearer 
the  night-light  and,  finding  the  page,  read  thereon. 
Of  a  sudden  a  great  cry  escaped  her  breast,  and, 
kneeling  by  the  bed,  she  embraced  the  pillows 
convulsively. 

*'  It  is  ten  days  ago — ten  days !" 

A  hundred  times  with  a  hundred  sighs,   in  a 


30  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

torrent  of  tears  like  one  demented,  she  repeated 
the  words  in  tones  of  anger,  fear,  and  lament.  She 
said  the  words  with  a  desolation  and  sadness,  and 
an  immense  melancholy.  Then  she  murmured 
them  more  softly,  and  even  stammered  them.  At 
last  she  was  silent;  her  tears  ceased.  Then  she 
fell,  wearied  out,  into  a  heavy,  dreamless  sleep. 


Ill 

As  she  entered  the  courtyard  of  the  Baths  of 
Diocletian,  where  modern  Rome  has  placed  a 
museum  for  whatever  the  Tiber  has  restored,  or 
whatever  has  been  excavated  in  recent  years,  Maria 
Guasco  closed  her  white  lace  parasol  and  looked 
around.  The  place  seemed  like  the  white  and 
silent  cloister  of  a  Christian  monastery.  Four 
roomy  covered  portici  surrounded  a  garden  planted 
simply  with  rose-bushes,  box  hedges,  and  some 
small  trees.  In  the  middle  rose  a  stone  sundial, 
and  on  the  right  a  well  with  an  ancient  pully 
from  whose  rope  was  hanging  an  old-fashioned 
bucket.  The  portici  were  quite  white,  and  along 
their  walls  were  hanging  fragments  of  marble  and 
pieces  of  Roman  bas-reliefs.  There  was  an  occa- 
siomal  bust  on  its  pedestal,  and  some  wooden 
benches.  But  at  the  beginning  of  the  summer,  at 
ten  in  the  morning,  the  place  was  without  visitors. 
Donna  Maria  stopped  undecidedly. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  white  soft  stuff  which 
waved  noiselessly  about  her,  a  large  white  and 
very  fine  veil  surrounded  her  hat,  her  abundant 
hair,  and  oval  face.  Youth,  primal  and  fresh,  pro- 
ceeded from  all  the  whiteness  in  which  she  walked, 

31 


32  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

like  one  of  those  dense,  soft,  white  clouds  which 
give  a  sense  of  spiritual  voluptuousness  to  the 
eyes.  Her  beauty  was  illuminated  by  it,  and  be- 
neath the  transparency  of  her  complexion  her 
blood  coursed  more  lively,  rendering  more  rosy 
her  delicate  and  expressive  countenance.  Only  her 
eyes  contained  a  tinge  of  disturbance  in  their 
colour,  undecided  between  grey  and  blue.  Some- 
thing proud  and  sad  concealed  them,  sometimes 
even  extinguishing  their  glance.  Donna  Maria's 
mouth,  too,  had  not  a  shadow  of  a  smile.  While 
she  stood  there  she  was  so  wrapped  in  her  thoughts 
and  sensations,  as  almost  to  forget  the  reason  for 
which  she  had  come  at  that  unusual  hour  to  the 
Baths  of  Diocletian. 

"  Good-morning,  Donna  Maria,"  said  a  gentle- 
man, coming  tow^ards  her,  taking  ofT  his  hat  with 
an  extremely  correct  bow. 

"  Good-morning,  Provana,"  she  said,  frowning 
slightly  and  biting  her  lip;  '*  since  when  have  you 
been  a  frequenter  of  museums  and  a  lover  of  the 
ancient  statues  of  Faustina  and  Britannicus?" 

*' Oh,  I  don't  care  for  them,  cara  Signora,'*  he 
hastened  to  say  with  an  ironical  smile,  **  I  don't 
understand  them,  and,  therefore,  I  detest  them." 

^' Why,  then?" 

*'To  be  able  to  speak  to  you  alone  in  a  place 
which  is  completely  deserted  at  this  hour  and 
season."  » 

**  Why    don't   you   come   to    my   house?"    she 


SOLIS    OCCASU  33 

replied,  growing  more  austere;  "  I  am  alone  some- 
times.'* 

**Yes;  but  Marco  Fiore  can  come  there  any 
minute,  neither  can  you  deny  him  entrance,"  he 
replied  coldly. 

*'  Do  you  hate  Marco  Fiore  so  much,  Provana?'' 

'*  I  don't  hate  him,  I  envy  him,"  he  added,  again 
becoming  the  gallant. 

*'  So  you  hasten  to  give  me  a  meeting  where 
he  must  not  interfere,  to  tell  me  things  he  must 
not  hear?"  she  replied  with  a  sardonic  laugh. 

"But  you  have  come  to  listen,"  he  observed 
craftily. 

She  bit  her  lip  hard,  and  extracted  from  her 
gold  chain-purse  a  note,  folded  in  four,  which  she 
gave  to  him. 

**  Take  back  your  letter,  Provana,  and  good- 
bye." 

**  Don't  go.  Donna  Maria,  don't  go.  Listen  to 
me  since  you  have  come.     It  is  a  serious  matter." 

*'  Good-bye,  Provana,"  she  replied,  almost 
reaching  the  main  entrance. 

**  In  Heaven's  name,  don't  leave!  The  matter 
is  really  so  important;"  and  his  voice  trembled 
with  anxiety. 

Donna  Maria  looked  at  him  intently.  Gianni 
Provana,  whose  correct  and  gentlemanly  face,  with 
its  more  than  forty  years,  for  the  most  part  pleas- 
ing and  inexpressive  in  lines  and  colouring, 
seemed  genuinely  moved.  H^s  monocle  had 
3 


34  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

fallen  from  its  orbit,  ancl  fie  was  a  litlle  pale.  He 
twisted  his  moustaches  nervously,  and  his  mouth, 
still  fresh  in  spite  of  its  maturity,  seemed  to  re- 
strain a  flow  of  words  with  difficulty. 

Donna  Maria  had  never  seen  him  thus;  Gianni, 
the  man  of  moderation  in  every  gesture  and  word, 
so  often  sceptical,  so  often  cold,  but  never  agitated, 
the  common  type,  in  fact,  of  the  elegant  gentleman 
who  assumes  a  correct  pose  from  infancy,  who 
cloaks  himself  with  a  studied  disdain  for  every- 
thing, and  most  especially  for  the  things  he  is 
not  aiming  at,  and  the  persons  he  does  not  under- 
stand. 

**  Really  I  can't  think  of  anything  important  to 
listen  to  from  you,"  she  murmured,  turning  back 
for  a  step  or  two. 

"  However,  it  is  so,  Donna  Maria.  It  is  a  ques- 
tion of  your  good  which  is  immensely  dear  to  me.*' 

**  Why  is  it  dear  to  you?  How  do  I  concern 
you?" 

"Why,   I  esteem  you  deeply;  I  love  you." 

**  Still  I  don't  love  you,  neither  do  I  esteem 
you,"  she  replied  icily. 

"  Why  don't  you  esteem  me?" 

'*  Because  you  are  a  dissembler,  Provana." 

*'  Dissembling  is  often  necessary  and  most  use- 
ful in  life.  It  is  often  an  act  of  prudence  and 
benevolence." 

"  That  is  the  invention  of  liars." 

They  walked  together,  side  by  side,  along  one 


SOLIS    OCCASU  35 

of  the  porticij  drawing  further  away  towards  the 
back  of  the  edifice.  Gianni  Provana  watched  her 
half  curiously  and  half  anxiously;  she  was  dis- 
tracted, gazing  intently  on  an  unknown  point, 
trailing  her  parasol. 

**  How  f^r  has  loyalty  served  you,  Donna  Maria? 
You  have  lost  reputation,  position,  and  family.*' 

**  I  have  gained  liberty  and  love,"  she  replied, 
raising  her  head  proudly. 

*'  But  not  happiness." 

**  Liberty  is  love,"  she  answered,  with  a  cry  ofj 
revolt. 

*'  You  are  the  prisoner  of  your  horrible  condi- 
tion. Donna  Maria,  and  you  are  not  sure  that 
Marco  Fiore  loves  you,"  he  insisted,  determined  to 
say  all. 

**  It  is  I  who  ought  to  love  him." 

*'  You  don't  love  him.  Donna  Maria.  I  swear 
that  you  don't  love  him." 

* '  Who  makes  you  say  this  ?  Who  has  told 
you  this?" 

**  I  say  it  because  I  know  it.  I  say  it  because 
it  is  necessary  to  open  your  eyes  to  yourself  and 
upon  Marco  Fiore?" 

"Why  do  you  do  this?  For  what  obscure 
motive?     For  what  perfidious  interest?" 

**  In  your  own  interest  entirely.  Donna  Maria." 

'*That  can't  be.  You  are  a  calculatqr.  You 
have  a  plan ;  reveal  it  at  once.  I  prefer  it.  What 
is  the  motive  of  this  meeting?" 


-S  AFTER    THE    PARDON 


o 


**  To  persuade  you  that  you  do  not  love  Marco 
Fiore,  and  that  he  does  not  love  you." 

*'  Is  it  he^  is  it  Marco  Fiore  who  sends  you?" 
she  exclaimed  with  a  spasm  in  her  voice. 

Gianni  Provana  hesitated  an  instant. 

**  No,  it  is  not  he.  It  is  I  who  have  guessed  all, 
who  know  all." 

She  bent  her  head  in  thought.  In  spite  of  the 
horror  which  this  colloquy  w^ith  a  man  she  had 
always  despised  caused  her,  although  she  was 
listening  to  words  which  offended  her  mortally,  she 
continued  to  listen  to  him  as  if  subjugated.  They 
had  now  reached  a  corner  of  the  portici  near  a  large 
pillar.     Not  a  shadow  of  a  visitor  appeared. 

"  Donna  Maria,  you  who  are  truth  herself,  how 
can  you  endure  this  life  of  lies?" 

**Of  lies?" 

"  Exactly.  You  are  deceiving  Marco  Fiore  when 
.you  tell  him  that  you  love  him,  and  you  are  deceiv- 
ing yourself.  He  is  deceiving  you.  This  love  is 
dead,  in  fact  it  has  been  lived  much  too  long." 

"  According  to  you,  who  suppose  that  you  know 
something  about  love,  how  long  does  passion  last  ? 
By  the  way,  perhaps  you  have  got  the  figures  with 
you  to  explain  them?" 

'*  Yes;  passion  lasts  from  six  months  to  a  year, 
love  from  a  year  to  two  years.  You  have  been 
living  a  lie  for  more  than  a  year.  O  Donna  Maria, 
break  this  chain." 

"Are   we   meant   to   slay   this   love?"    she  ex- 


SOLIS    OCCASU  37 

claimed  mockingly,  with  a  shrill  bitterness  in  her 
voice. 

**  You  ought  to  slay  it!" 

**  And  am  I  afterwards  to  burn  myself  on  the 
pyre  like  the  widows  of  Malabar?"  she  continued, 
even  more  mockingly  ?)nd  bitterly. 

''  You  ought  to  live  and  be  happy." 

*'  With  you,  eh  ?     With  Gianni  Provana  ?" 

*'  With  another,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  looking 
at  her. 

''With  whom?" 

**  With  Emilio  Guasco,"  he  ventured  to  say. 

''Don't  repeat  the  infamy!"  she  cried,  clench- 
ing her  teeth. 

A  terrible  silence  came  upon  them.  The  sun 
had  already  invaded  half  of  the  simple  garden 
among  the  thick  box  hedges  and  winter  roses.  The 
soft  singing  of  a  little  bird  issued  here  and  there 
from  the  trees. 

"  Does  he  send  you,  Provana  ?"  she  continued,  in 
a  voice  almost  hoarse  with  annoyance,  so  great  was 
the  disdain  which  she  was  controlling  within  her. 

"  No,  he  doesn't  send  me,  but  I  am  come  all  the 
same.  Donna  Maria,  does  it  please  you  to  con- 
tinue to  live  outside  the  laws,  outside  morality,  out- 
side society,  when  the  great  cause  of  it  is  at  an 
end?  Does  it  please  you  still  to  sacrifice  your 
decorum,  your  dignity,  your  name,  not,  to  love 
but  to  your  fancy  ?  Where  are  there  any  more  the 
supreme  compensations  for  all  that  you  have  lost  ? 


38  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

jWhere  are  there  any  more  the  rich  sentimental  and 
'sensual  rewards  for  that  which  you  have  thrown 
•away  and  abandoned?  How  does  your  abnega- 
tion profit  you  any  more?  You  have  given  all 
and  are  giving  all,  and  meanwhile  your  life  is 
empty,  your  soul  is  empty.*' 

Why  did  she  listen  so  intently,  without  interrupt- 
ing, without  rebelling  ?  Why  was  no  shock  given 
to  her  pride?  And  why  did  she  cry  out  no  more 
in  protest?  Gianni  Provana  so  eold,  so  sceptical 
in  his  manner,  was  reaching  at  that  time  and  in 
that  singular  place  almost  to  eloquence.  She  who 
isuspected  him,  despised  and  considered  him  a  liar 
and  a  hypocrite,  was  listening  to  him,  while  her 
■face  contracted  with  suffering  and  disdain. 

**  Donna  Maria,  you  had  the  courage  to  offend 
and  abandon  your  husband  who  had  done  nothing 
to  you,  because  you  did  not  care  to  live  in  deceit 
anjd  treachery  :  have  another  courage,  worthy  of 
:you,  that  of  flying  from  Marco  Fiore,  since  you 
love  him  no  more  and  he  does  not  love  you.  Leave 
the  house  where  you  live  in  heavy  and  gloomy 
silence;  re-enter  the  world,  re-enter  society.  Be 
an  honoured  and  respected  lady,  as  you  deserve  to 
be  for  your  beauty  and  your  great  soul." 

**  To  become  what  you  tell  me,  Provana,*' 
she  replied  precisely,  in  a  hard  voice,  *'  I  ought 
to  return  to  my  husband." 

'*  You  ought  to  return." 

*'  And  he  would  take  me  back?'* 


SOLIS   OCCASU  39 

**  He  would  take  you  back." 

**  Forgetting  all?" 

*'  Forgiving  you  everything." 

**  After  three  years  of  public  scandal,  of  life  to- 
gether with  Marco  Fiore  in  the  same  city,  under 
his  eyes — my  husband  would  do  this?" 

'*  He  would  do  it  because  he  believes  in  the  law 
of  pardon." 

**  Knowing  that  I  do  not  love  him  ?" 

'*  Knowing  it  quite  well." 

"  That  I  shall  never  love  him  ?" 

*' Who  can  tell  that?" 

**  I !"  she  proclaimed.  **  I  shall  never  love  him, 
and  he  knows  it." 

'*  In  spite  of  that,  he  desires  to  pardon  you,  and 
to  give  you  back  all  that  you  have  lost  by  your 
passion." 

"Why  does  he  do  this?" 

"  Because  he  is  good." 

"A  great  many  good  people  would  never  do  it !" 

'*  Because  he  has  suffered  much  and  learned 
much." 

*'  What  have  his  sufferings  to  do  with  me?" 

**  He  has  pity  for  your  sorrows." 

**  Pity  is  not  enough  to  do  this,  Provana." 

"  Because  he  loves  you,"  Gianni  Provana 
declared  at  last. 

*' What  a  poltroon!"  she  sneered  with  infinite 
contempt. 

**  Am  I  to  tell  Emilio  Guasco  this?" 


40  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  Tell  him  what  you  please." 

**  His  love  does  not  move  you  ?" 

**No.'* 

*'  His  pity  does  not  soften  you?" 

**  No." 

'*  Doesn't  his  pardon  seem  a  sublime  act  to  you? 
Is  he  not  a  hero?" 

*'  I  am  a  miserable  creature  made  of  clay,  and  I 
do  not  understand  sublimity." 

They  were  silent.  The  weather  became  warmer 
and  slightly  heavier,  and  the  singing  of  the  little 
birds  in  the  trees  grew  weaker.  Some  of  the  roses 
had  scattered  their  leaves  on  the  ground. 

"  And  with  all  this  what  are  we  going  to  do  with 
Marco  Fiore?"  she  broke  in  with  irony. 

**  With  Marco?" 

**  Yes,  with  him.  What  will  he  do  when,  accord- 
ing to  you,  I  have  returned  to  my  husband  ?  What 
will  become  of  Marco?" 

"  He  will  be  content  to  marry  Vittoria  Casalta. 
The  girl  has  been  waiting  for  him  for  three  years." 

"  Ah  !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  scarcely  recog- 
nisable. 

Without  greeting  or  looking  at  him  she  turned 
her  back,  and  went  quickly  round  the  corner  of 
the  portico. 

Nor  did  Gianni  Provana  dare  to  follow  her. 


IV 

Maria  had  searched  for  Marco  Fiore  for  an 
hour  in  all  the  places  she  supposed  he  might  be; 
at  the  great  door  of  Palazzo  Fiore,  in  the  via  Bocca 
di  Leone,  leaving  him  word  scribbled  in  pencil  on 
a  small  piece  of  paper;  at  the  Hunt  Club,  which 
he  sometimes  looked  into  towards  noon;  at  the 
fencing  rooms  in  the  via  Muratte,  where  two  or 
three  times  a  week  he  used  to  undergo  a  long  sword 
exercise. 

Porters,  butlers,  servants  had  seen  the  beautiful 
and  elegant  lady,  dressed  in  white,  hidden  behind 
a  white  veil,  ask  with  insistence  for  the  noble  Marco 
Fiore  and  go  away  slowly,  as  if  not  convinced  that 
he  was  not  in  one  of  those  places.  Towards  noon, 
agitated  and  silent,  consumed  by  her  emotion,  she 
entered  the  little  villa  at  Santa  Maria  Maggiore, 
and  there,  at  the  threshold,  was  Marco,  who  had 
just  arrived,  with  a  slightly  languid  smile  on  his 
lips  and  the  habitual  softness  in  his  eyes. 

'*  Ah,  Marco,  Marco,  I  have  looked  for  you 
everywhere,"  she  stammered  in  confusion,  taking 
him  by  the  hand. 

'*What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked,  a  little  sur- 
prised, scrutinising  her  face. 

41 


42  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

*' Come,  Marco;  come." 

Still  leading  him  by  the  hand  she  made  him  cross 
the  ante-room,  the  drawing-room,  the  little  draw- 
ing-room, and  the  study,  and  did  not  stop  till 
she  was  with  him  in  the  bedroom  with  its  closed 
green  shutters,  whence  entered  the  perfumes  from 
a  very  tiny  conservatory.  Once  within,  she  closed 
the  door  with  a  tired  gesture.  They  were  alone. 
She  fixed  him  with  her  eyes  right  into  his,  placing 
her  two  hands  on  his  shoulders,  dominating  him 
with  her  height.  And  to  him  never  had  her  face 
seemed  so  beautiful  and  so  ardent. 

**  Do  you  love  me,  Marco?" 

"  I  love  you,"  he  said  with  tender  sweetness. 

**  You  mustn't  say  it  so.  Better,  better.  Do  you 
love  me?" 

**  I  love  you,"  he  replied,  disturbed. 

**  As  once  upon  a  time,  you  must  say,  as  once 
upon  a  time.-' 

**  I  love  you,  Maria,"  he  replied,  still  more 
disturbed. 

**  Do  you  love  me  as  at  first?  Reply  without 
hesitating,  without  thinking — as  at  first?" 

Regarding  him,  scorching  him  with  her  glance, 
with  the  pressure  of  her  white  and  firm  hands  on 
his  shoulders,  she  subjugated  him. 

Already  the  youthful  blood  of  Marco  Fiore 
coursed  in  his  veins,  and  the  giddiness  of  passion, 
which  for  some  time  had  not  overcome  his  soul, 
mastered  him. 


SOLIS   OCCASU  43 

*•  As  at  first,"  he  murmured,  in  a  subdued  voice. 

*'  It  is  true  you  don't  want  to  lose  me.  Say  it! 
Say  it!'' 

**  I  would  prefer  to  lose  my  soul." 

**  You  have  never  thought  of  leaving  me?*' 

•*  Never." 

*'  Am  I  always  your  lady?" 

'*  My  lady,  you,  and  you  only." 

**Oh,  Marco!"  she  sighed,  letting  her  face  fall 
on  his  breast,  yielding  to  an  emotion  which  was 
too  violent. 

He  had  become  very  pale.  His  eyebrows  were 
knotted  in  sad  thought.  He  took  her  face,  covered 
with  tears,  and  wiped  it  with  his  handkerchief,  and 
asked  her  with  a  voice,  where  already  suspicion 
was  pressing,  and  where  jealousy  was  hissing 
insidiously — 

"  What  is  this,  Mary?    Tell  me  all." 

"Oh,  I  can't,  I  can't,"  she  said  desperately. 

**Tell  me  all  at  once,"  he  rejoined  in  angry 
impatience. 

**  No,  no,  Marco,  it  is  nothing.  I  am  mad  this 
morning." 

**  That  is  impossible.  You  were  calm  and 
serene  yesterday  evening.  There  is  something. 
There  is  somebody.  Whom  have  you  seen  this 
morning?" 

The  question  was  so  precise  and  abrupt  that 
the  woman  of  truth  hesitated,  and  dared  no  longer 
be  silent. 


44  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

*'  I  have  seen  Gianni  Provana.'* 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  twisting  his  moustaches; 
"did  you  see  him  here?'* 

"  No,  elsewhere.*' 

"  Elsewhere?     In  the  street?" 

"  Almost." 

"  You  met  him  by  accident?" 

"  Not  by  accident." 

"Maria,  Maria!"  he  cried;  "why  have  you 
done  this?" 

"  I  have  erred;  pardon  me,  Marco." 

She  humbled  herself,  taking  his  hands  to  kiss 
them  in  an  act  of  profound  contrition. 

But  releasing  himself,  he  made  two  or  three 
turns  of  the  room,'  then  returned  to  her. 

"  And  what  has  that  reptile  said  to  you  ?  Repeat 
to  me  what  that  horrid  man  said  to  you." 

"  Oh,  he  is  so  horrid  as  to  make  one  shudder." 

"  Repeat  it;  repeat  it  at  once,  Maria." 

"  How  am  I  to  tell  them?  They  are  infamous 
things." 

"  Against  me?" 

"  Against  us." 

"But  speak,  at  least  speak  !  Do  you  wish  to 
make  me  die  of  anger  and  impatience?" 

"  No,  Marco.  I  will  tell  you  all.  Come,  sit 
beside  me,  be  tranquil.  I  don't  like  to  see  you  so. 
You  must  be  calm,  my  love,  so  that  I  may  tell  you 
all;  you  must  be  sweet  and  loving,  and  not  so  dis- 
turbed and  wicked." 


SOLIS   OCCASU  45 

**  Maria,  I  am  waiting,"  he  said,  almost  without 
listening  to  her,  folding  his  arms. 

*'  Listen;  it  is  true  I  ought  not  to  have  gone  to 
the  meeting  with  Gianni  Provana.  I  have  erred 
jgreatly,  but  a  secret  terror  has  been  too  much  for 
me;  I  wished  to  know  w^hat  he  had  to  tell  me. 
Could  it  not  be  perhaps  a  secret  threat  for  me,  for 
;^ou?" 

"  I  fear  nothing,  Mary." 

"I,  too,  nothing;  but  I  went  to  know.  That 
man  is  so  perverse,  and  he  is  always  seeing  my 
husband." 

"Then  he  came  for  Emilio  Guasco?"  he  ex- 
claimed, rising. 

*'  Yes,"  she  said  with  candour. 

"To  tell  you  what  in  the  name  of  Emilio 
Guasco?" 

'*  To  tell  me  that  you  no  longer  love  me." 

"It  is  false,  I  swear!"  exclaimed  Marco  Fiore, 
with  vehemence. 

"  To  suggest  to  me  that  I  no  longer  love  you." 

"  Swear  that  it  is  false." 

"  I  swear  it,"  she  replied,  with  a  grave  voice. 

"  And  then?  and  then?" 

"  And  then,  as  our  love  had  been  killed,  it  was 
necessary  and  right  to  re-enter  the  lawful,  to  re- 
enter the  moral,  to  resume  my  place  in  society,  to 
return  esteemed,  respected,  honoured." 

"That  is  to  say?" 

"  To  return  to  my  husband." 


46  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  He  said  this  atrocious  thing  to  you?" 

**  This  atrocious  thing." 

**  Of  his  own  initiative?'* 

*•  No,  Marco." 

**So,"  he  exclaimed  in  the  height  of  anger, 
**  this  husband  of  yours,  this  friend  of  his,  beyond 
me,  above  me,  and  against  me,  laughing  at  me, 
propose  that  you  should  leave  me  and  return  to 
Casa  Guasco?" 

*•  Yes." 

*•  After  all  that  has  happened?" 

''  Yes." 

**  After  three  years  of  a  life  of  love,  our  only 
and  unique  life  of  love,  you  should  return  to  Casa 
Guasco?"     • 

"  It  is  so." 

The  physiognomy  of  Marco  Fiore  became  trans- 
figured. A  convulsion  of  bitterness,  of  suffering, 
of  fury  shook  it  continuously ;  that  slightly  morbid 
insouciance,  which  composed  its  poetry  together 
with  its  youth,  had  quite  vanished,  showing  only  a 
face  of  energy,  crossed  by  sentiments  more  unre- 
strainedly virile. 

*'  And  your  husband,  whom  they  say  is  a  man 
of  honour,  would  he  forget  the  dishonour?" 

*'  He  is  ready  to  forget  it." 

*'  Would  a  gentleman  forget  an  offence  so  open 
and  so  cruel?" 

"  He  has  been  ready,  he  says,  for  a  long  time 
to  pardon." 


SOLIS   OCCASU  47 

**  But  why?  Is  he  a  rascal  perhaps?  Is  he  a 
saint  perhaps  ?  Has  he  blood  in  his  impoverished 
veins?  Has  he  a  heart  in  that  money-grubbing 
breast  of  his?" 

*  *  He  says  that  he  has  suffered ;  that  he  is 
suffering.** 

"But  why  does  he  suffer? — through  amour 
propre?  through  pride?  through  envy?  through 
punctiliousness?" 

She  was  silent.     He,  as  one  mad,  continued — 

**  What  has  made  him  suffer? — the  injury?  the 
insult?  the  public  shame?  ridicule?  Why,  after 
having  suffered,  does  he  pardon?" 

Still  she  was  silent. 

"  And  why  does  he  want  you?  To  shame  me? 
To  have  his  revenge?  So  that  the  world  may 
mock  me  as  it  has  mocked  him  ?  Why  does  he 
want  you  ?  To  adorn  his  salons  ?  To  expose  the 
jewels  he  has  given  you  ?  To  decorate  his  box  at 
the  theatre  ?     Why  does  he  want  you  ?" 

With  head  bowed  and  hands  joined  together  on 
her  knees,  she  remained  silent  and  pale.  He  went 
towards  her  and  forced  her  to  rise  and  look  at  him, 

"You  know,  Maria,  why  he  forgets,  why  he 
pardons  you,  why  he  wants  you.  You  know  and 
you  won't  tell  me." 

She  shook  her  head  in  denial. 

"You  know,  you  know;  they  have  told  you  ; 
repeat  it  to  me !  If  you  don*t  tell  me,  I  am  going 
away  and  I  am  never  going  to  return  again." 


48  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

Maria  trembled. 

"  I  know,"  she  stammered,  "  I  know,  but  I  did 
not  wish  to  tell.  Provana  says  .  .  .  that  my  hus- 
band loves  me,  he  forgets  because  he  loves  me :  he 
pardons  because  he  loves  me ;  he  wants  me  because 
he  loves  me.     That  is  all.*' 

Violently,  brutally,  he  took  her  in  his  arms,  and 
pressed  her  to  himself. 

*'  I  love  you,  Maria,  I  only  love  you.*' 

'*  Oh  !'*  she  exclaimed,  with  emotion  ;  **  as  once 
upon  a  time,  as  once  upon  a  time?" 

Pressed  to  him,  closed  as  in  a  vice  in  his  arms, 
he  kissed  her  on  the  hair,  the  eyes,  the  mouth, 
murmuring — 

"  I  love  you,  Maria,  as  at  first,  as  always,  for 
ever,  I  love  you." 

Radiant  with  joy,  crying  with  joy,  she  threw 
back  her  head  as  if  inebriated. 

**  You  are  mine,  Maria,  it  is  true?" 

**  Yours,  yours,  yours." 

'*  No  one  else's  ever?" 

*'  No  one  else's." 

"  I  shall  never  let  you  be  taken  by  any  one, 
Maria." 

**  No  one  can  take  me." 

'*  I  would  kill  him  first,  Maria,  then  myself." 

"  Marco,  Marco,  I  adore  you  !" 

For  a  moment  his  encircling  arms  loosened,  as 
he  thought  for  an  instant.  A  powerful  exaltation, 
proceeding  from  a  powerful  instinct,  was  compel- 


SOLIS   OCCASU  4Q 

ling  him.     And  she  was  intoxicated  with  joy  of 
him. 

*'  Maria,  will  you  do  as  I  wish?" 

*'  Yes,  like  a  slave." 

**  Good;  let  us  go  away  together." 

**  Let  us  go." 

**  To-morrow?" 

"  No,  this  evening." 

'*  This  evening  ?     Where  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Far  away.  Together.  Some- 
where where  there  are  not  these  infamous  persons 
and  horrible  annoyances,  Mary.  Far  away,  where 
your  soul  and  your  person  may  be  only  mine,  with- 
out remorse,  without  reproach,  without  remem- 
brances.    Together,  away  from  here,  far  off." 

**  Let  us  go,  Marco." 

**  You  follow  me  with  desire,  with  enthusiasm?" 

**  With  desire,  with  enthusiasm." 

**  As  if  you  were  leaving  for  ever,  never  more 
to  return?" 

*'  As  if  I  were  going  to  love  and  to  death, 
Marco." 

"  This  evening,  Maria?" 

*'  This  evening." 

*'  But  I  am  not  going  to  leave  you  to-day.  I 
can't  leave  you.  I  am  frightened  that  you  may 
not  come.  I  am  frightened  that  I  may  lose  you, 
Maria." 

"Just  as  we  fled  the  first  time,  then,"  she  mur- 
mured, in  a  mysterious,  dreamy  ecstasy. 
4 


50  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

"  As  the  first  time,  darling.'* 

And  the  old  times  reappeared  to  them,  just  as 
the  voices  reappeared,  just  as  the  words  reappeared ; 
time  was  annulled,  and  everything  w^as  as  at  first. 
They  asked  nothing  of  their  souls,  of  their  hearts, 
since  the  looks,  the  voices,  and  the  gestures  were 
as  at  first;  in  the  unrestrained  tumult  of  resumed 
passion  their  souls  and  their  hearts  kept  silence,  in 
their  profound,  singular,  and  obscure  silence. 


Venice,  who  has  consecrated  and  exalted  in  her 
soft  and  persuasive  arms  a  thousand  powerful  love- 
knots,  placed  the  wonderful  peace  of  her  mortal 
beauty  round  the  grand  flame  of  Maria  Guasco  and 
Marco  Fiore;  the  silent  caress  of  her  glimmering 
lights,  and  the  tenderness  of  her  melancholy.  The 
amorous  fluid  that  thousands  of  lovers  gathered 
wherever  they  lived,  wherever  they  moved  in 
Venice — that  amorous  fluid  that  emanates  from  her 
quiet  waters,  from  the  balconies  of  her  palaces, 
from  the  veiled  voices  of  those  who  sing  in  flower- 
ing gardens  on  quiet  side  canals,  that  emanates 
from  the  gloomy  colour  of  her  gondolas,  from  the 
whiteness  of  the  marble  which  the  water  has  left 
intact  or  obscured,  which  emanates  from  every 
lineament  of  the  place  and  from  every  tint  of  the 
sky,  enveloped  Marco  Fiore  and  Maria  Guasco, 
and  multiplied  their  flame  into  a  precipitous  tumult 
of  their  lives. 

Their  love  had  something  mysterious,  powerful, 
and  troublous  in  that  ardent  renewal,  which  en- 
gulfed them  as  in  a  whirlwind.  They  seemed  blind 
and  deaf  to  every  other  aspect  and  every  other 
sound  of  life  which  was  not  their  amorous  delirium. 

51 


52  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

If  no  idyllic  sweetness,  if  no  sentimental  tender- 
ness brightened  the  passing  of  the  days,  the  fever 
which  caused  them  to  palpitate,  which  singularly 
always  gave  them  fresh  fire,  had  aspects  unknown 
to  many,  unknown  even  to  themselves.  A  veil  was 
over  their  eyes  when  they  turned  them  away  from 
the  adored  person ;  and  the  vision  of  Venice,  where 
their  days  were  slipping  away,  was  like  a  dream 
around  them,  was  like  a  scene  unknown,  appearing 
and  vanishing  just  as  in  a  dream.  Never  had 
Maria  Guasco,  whose  beauty  consisted  above  all  in 
a  lively,  tender,  and  proud  expression  of  counten- 
ance, never  had  she  carried  so  clearly  and  openly 
those  signs  of  amorous  happiness  which  cause  envy 
and  regret  to  those  who  have  never  been  in  love, 
or  who  no  longer  love.  Never,  too,  had  Marco 
Fiore  experienced  a  greater  passion,  or  a  larger 
sense  of  subjugation  to  a  creature  beloved. 

Sometimes,  however,  passion  in  its  violence 
seemed  odious  to  him,  and  he  would  gaze  at  Maria 
with  eyes  sad  and  stern  but  still  passionate,  and 
he  would  speak  to  her  shortly  and  commandingly, 
while  his  strong  hands  would  press  her  soft  hands 
so  roughly  as  almost  to  cause  her  pain. 

Then  she  would  become  silent,  biting  her  lips  to 
prevent  a  cry,  and  bowing  her  head  as  if  conquered 
and  crushed. 

Long  indeed  were  the  silences  of  the  lovers,  and 
gladly  were  their  lips  dumb,  as  if  words  were  use- 
less to  their  understanding  and  thoughts  weighed 


sous   OCCASU  53 

heavily  on  their  hearts,  or  as  if  they  felt  it  was 
profoundly  dangerous  to  give  life  to  their  thoughts 
with  a  word.  They  remained  side  by  side  in  their 
room  in  the  Grand  Hotel  on  the  Grand  Canal, 
silent  and  absorbed.  Sometimes  they  stood  to- 
gether on  the  small  marble  balcony  watching  the 
canal  winding  among  the  magnificent  palaces  to- 
wards the  SalutCy  with  joined  hands  and  fingers 
interlaced,  and  watched  for  a  long  time  the  bizarre 
reflections  of  the  water  changing  colour  beneath 
the  light  of  the  sky,  always  silent  and  oppressed. 
On  the  occasions  when  the  gondola  carried  them  in 
long  excursions,  left  to  the  choice  of  the  gondolier, 
to  the  more  solitary  canals  and  islands,  Marco 
became  more  imperious  in  his  lover's  exactions. 
If  Maria  drew  aside  from  him  even  for  a  minute, 
he  called  her  back  with  a  sudden  and  almost  angry 
gesture;  if  she  had  a  bunch  of  flowers  in  her  belt 
he  snatched  them  one  by  one,  kissed  them,  and 
threw  them  into  the  water,  and  he  would  continually 
take  her  handkerchief  and  gloves  and  press  them  to 
his  face  and  lips. 

They  spoke  seldom  and  subduedly,  just  their 
names,  or  a  monosyllable  uttered  questioningly  and 
repeated  with  an  acquiescent  nod  and  dropping  of 
the  eyes.  Their  passion,  even  in  its  greatest  flame, 
was  collected  and  gloomy,  and  just  as  they  were 
not  exuberant  in  words  they  were  not  exuberant 
in  smiles.  No  puerile  happiness  or  youthful  gaiety 
enlivened    its    intensity.      Their    passion    seemed 


54  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

greater  than  they  could  endure,  heavy  and  crushing 
in  its  force  and  vigour,  and  their  souls  and  heart 
were  too  little  to  contain  it ;  or  its  secret  violence  and 
immeasurable  power  seemed  to  surprise  and  dispirit 
them  every  instant,  as  if  they  were  ignorant  of  its 
origin  and  end.  Every  now  and  then  Maria,  as  if 
she  could  no  longer  endure  his  intense  glances, 
placed  her  hands  over  Marco's  eyes,  as  against  the 
light  of  the  sun  which  vivifies  and  yet  blinds,  and 
sometimes  he  returned  the  gesture,  placing  his  hand 
on  her  ruby  mouth,  to  stop  her  rare  words  and 
continuous  kisses,  as  if  his  fibres  were  relaxing 
beneath  the  ideal  and  sensual  caress  which  was  con- 
suming him.  Their  memories,  too,  were  wrapped 
in  a  veil,  or  they  would  have  remembered  their 
first  journey;  their  flight  in  which  in  a  thousand 
forms  of  joy  their  cry  of  liberty  had  broken  out, 
in  which  a  thousand  smiles  carelessly  adorned  their 
day,  in  which  the  song  of  the  simplest  and  purest 
jollity  overflowed  their  mornings,  and  the  laugh 
which  closed  their  day  and  sent  them  deliciously  to 
sleep. 

They  remembered  none  of  that.  This  other 
love,  silent,  without  jests,  without  songs,  without 
smiles;  this  turbid  and  gloomy  love  resembled 
a  spell-bound  spiritual  imprisonment,  a  magical 
slavery  of  the  senses,  and  a  tyrannous  voluptuous- 
ness which  filled  them  with  madness  and  deadly 
intoxication. 

Their  reason  for  leaving  Rome  was  never  men- 


SOLIS   OCCASU  55 

tioned  by  them.  Perhaps  once  or  twice  the  woman 
wished  to  allude  to  it,  but  immediately,  pale  with 
anger  and  jealousy,  the  man  had  cried  out — 
'*No!" 

And  he  closed  her  again  to  his  breast,  where  his 
heart  beat  as  tumultuously  as  on  the  day  in  which 
he  had  nearly  seen  the  hand  of  Emilio  Guasco,  her 
husband,  take  her  hand  in  the  shade  and  lead  her 
away.  Very  often  such  pallor  and  such  fury 
passed  over  Marco's  face  as  to  give  a  greater 
clearness  and  heat  to  the  flame  of  love.  Often,  too, 
when  she  seemed  thoughtful  and  absorbed,  and  her 
soul  was  slipping  away  from  the  place  and  altar 
of  passion  he  would  lean  over  her,  and,  seized  again 
by  the  madness  of  that  day,  would  embrace  her 
fiercely,  and  his  breath  on  her  forehead  seemed  as 
if  it  wished  to  devour  the  thought  which  was  going 
towards  Rome. 

She  understood  at  once,  and  exclaimed  passion- 
ately— 

*'No,  Marco,  no!" 

Then  Marco  would  stammer  a  question  brokenly 
in  a  monosyllable. 

*'Mine?     Mine?" 

**  Thine  !  thine  !"  she  answered,  looking  at  him. 

Nothing  more.  Nothing  more  than  these  two 
words,  so  monotonous,  intense  and  inexorable. 
Not  another  demand,  not  another  reply;  not  a 
promise,  not  an  oath.  The  words  of  possession  : 
thine  and  mine.    The  length  of  this  delirium  and 


56  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

the  passing  of  time  left  no  impression  on  their 
minds.  Others  counted  their  days  by  their  troubles 
or  pleasures,  not  so  Marco  and  Maria. 

Four  weeks  had  fled  on  a  day  at  the  end  of 
July  when,  one  morning,  Maria  rising  from  the 
old-fashioned  chair,  approached  a  table,  and, 
taking  a  pen,  dipped  it  in  the  ink  as  if  to  write. 
Then  she  trembled  at  her  act,  which  drew  her 
back  to  the  fiery  circle  of  her  love,  and  she  looked 
at  Marco,  He  had  seen  all  without  showing  sur- 
prise. Then  she  heard  his  voice,  that  voice  of 
other  times,  a  little  tired,  a  little  veiled,  letting 
fall  a  question  almost  of  politeness,  but  w'ithout  any 
interest  in  a  reply — 

'*  Are  you  going  to  write,  Maria?" 

A  fit  of  trembling  caused  her  to  hesitate.  He 
did  not  notice  her  disturbance  as  his  eyes  were 
lowered.  She  sat  down  to  write.  But  the  tumult 
within  her  was  so  strong  that  her  hand  traced 
mechanically  meaningless  signs.  Maria  had  no 
one  to  write  to,  and  did  not  know  what  to  wTite. 
Her  hand  fell  upon  the  paper,  and  she  bent  her 
head.     Still  he  noticed  nothing. 

'*  Marco?"  she  asked,  in  the  cold  clear  voice  of 
former  times,  '*  Marco,  what  is  the  matter?" 

And  truth  was  evoked  from  the  depth  of  the 
man's  soul.  Truth  said  simply  and  cruelly:  **  I 
am  tired." 

So  it  was  all  that  memorable  day.     Maria  saw 


SOLIS   OCCASU  57 

in  Marco  Fiore's  face  nothing  but  an  unspeakable 
weariness.  On  the  marble  balcony  above  the  silver- 
grey  water  which  he  was  looking  at,  his  weariness 
lent  a  leaden  colour  to  his  lips  and  eyes,  and  a 
dense  pallor  to  his  face.  A  sad  wrinkle  of  exhaus- 
tion was  at  each  corner  of  his  mouth.  Again  she 
asked,  "Are  you  tired?*' 

Again  he  replied,  cruelly  and  monotonously,  **  I 
am  tired.'* 

She  saw  him  stretch  himself  on  the  soft  black 
cushions  of  the  gondola,  as  if  he  wished  to  stay 
there  for  ever.  He  did  not  look  to  see  if  she  was 
beside  him  and  shut  his  eyes  as  if  asleep,  but  with- 
out sleeping,  nor  did  he  issue  from  that  silence 
and  stupor  till  they  landed  from  the  gondola  at 
the  Palazzo  Ferro.  When  at  night  he  retired, 
after  touching  her  hair  with  the  lightest  of  kisses, 
when  later  in  her  soft  night-garments  she  went 
to  see  him  asleep,  she  stopped  near  the  bed. 
Horrible  sight !  Marco  was  sleeping  heavily,  with 
his  head  buried  in  the  pillows  just  as  if  it  was 
his  last  sleep,  and  all  his  face  was  decomposed  in 
its  fatigue  and  pallor,  even  the  lips  were  white 
beneath  the  moustaches,  and  his  forehead  had  a 
crease  of  weariness  and  bitterness.  Too  long,  in- 
deed, did  she  gaze  at  that  sight,  and  drink  in  its 
poison  with  her  soul  and  eyes.  She  felt  her  heart 
like  a  stone  within  her  breast,  and  her  soul  wound 
her  person  like  a  sharp  rock  with  a  tremendous 
spasm.    She  felt,  too,  the  floods  of  bitterness  like 


58  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

a  poison  diffuse  themselves  through  her  being. 
Falling  on  the  bed  in  her  white  garments  she  lapsed 
into  the  same  lead-like  lethargy  as  her  lover. 

Of  their  exhausted  forces  of  desire,  of  their 
weary  and  somnolent  bodies,  their  spent  phanta- 
sies and  arid  souls,  of  this  cessation  of  spiritual 
life,  on  the  following  day,  they  understood  the 
tremendous  truth.  They  understood  how,  as  in 
common  people,  that  rude  and  fierce  instinct, 
which  is  jealousy,  had  plotted  against  them ;  a 
jealousy  physical  and  base,  taking  the  appearance 
of  a  higher  and  more  ardent  love,  of  a  passion 
larger  and  more  consuming;  and  how  like  inex- 
perienced and  weak  creatures  they  had  been 
victims  of  a  trivial  deception  of  the  senses,  aban- 
doning themselves  to  it,  as  to  a  renewing  flame  of 
•  love  more  youthful  and  more  devouring.  The 
man  felt  the  shame  mount  to  his  face  for  having 
mistaken  the  impulse  of  a  vulgar,  fatuous,  and 
virile  affirmation  of  possession  for  a  fresher  and 
more  vigorous  desire  of  love's  happiness,  and  he 
experienced  a  great  repentance  for  having  sur- 
rendered to  it  their  hope  in  a  new  future  for  their 
love.  But  more  supreme  was  the  woman's  shame 
for  having  fallen  into  the  net  of  the  senses,  she 
so  proud,  so  modest,  and  so  chaste  even  in 
passion.  Her  sorrow  was  the  more  supreme  for 
having  ever  believed  that  love  can  be  reborn  from 
its  ashes. 

For  a  day  they  hated  and  despised  themselves 


SOLIS   OCCASU  59 

as  never  before.  For  a  day  they  hated  themselves 
fiercely.  Then  that  shadow,  that  coldness,  and 
that  boredom  ruled  over  them,  whose  signs  they 
had  piously  hidden  in  Rome,  but  which  at  last  in 
Venice  they  no  longer  dared  conceal. 


VI 

"  Spello,  October.  .  .  . 

**  Dearest  Mary, 

**  Since  you  as  ever  appear  to  me  what  you 

are,   a  creature  of  truth,   and  since  you   tell   me 

briefly    and    honestly — and    in    reading    I    almost 

seem  to  hear  your  voice — *  Marco,   our  dream  is 

over,*  I  ought  to  elevate  my  spirit  to  your  moral 

height  where  a  lie  is  impossible,  and  repeat  loyally, 

*  Maria,    our   dream    is   over.'      It   was   beautiful. 

No  meanness  disturbed   its  violent  grandeur,    no 

weakness  spoiled  its  power,  no  hypocrisy  disturbed 

its  purity,  and  we  indeed  preferred  to  break  the 

social     knot     rather    than     loosen     it     miserably. 

Moreover,  we  preferred  to  give  a  single  sorrow  to 

others  rather  than  inflict  ridicule  and  humiliation 

on    them    every   day,    and    w^e   preferred   to   exile 

and    isolate    ourselves    than    drag    deception    and 

fraud  from  drawing-room  to  drawing-room,  from 

home   to   home.      We   lived   so   impetuously   and 

ardently  in  a  fulness  and  richness  of  life,  which, 

darling    Maria,     neither    of    us    will     ever    find 

again,  which  ought  not  to  be  found  again  because 

certain  destinies  have  but  one  existence.     Ours  is 

past  and  the  dream  is  ended. '  Nothing  remains 

60 


sous   OCCASU  6i 

for  us  except  the  enduring  memory  of  its  beauty 
and  intensity. 

**  \ye  believed  this  dream  to  be  eternal;  we  be- 
lieved tjiat  it  would  have  led  us  hand  in  hand  to- 
gether, full  of  desire  and  hope,  even  to  the  hour 
of  death.  Such  is  the  measured  small  eternity  of 
man  !  Not  even  was  this  true,  not  even  was  this 
modest  cycle  of  years,  modest  compared  with 
Time,  just  the  life  of  a  man  and  a  woman,  given 
to  our  dream.  The  hours,  days,  and  years  were 
limited,  not  by  us,  not  by  our  enthusiasm,  not  by 
our  anxiety,  but  by  the  laws  of  passion  them- 
selves, those  immutable  laws,  alas  I  which  each 
believes  he  can  change,  which  each  hopes  to  elude, 
and  by  which  we  are  all  dominated. 

**  Adored  Maria,  you  have  had  from  me  all  the 
love  which  a  young  man,  impassioned  and  sincere, 
can  give  to  an  adorable  woman  such  as  you  are; 
but  love  is  a  brief  matter,  with  a  brevity  which 
frightens  all  desolate  and  tender  souls,  all  faithful 
hearts  and  feeling  fibres.  He  who  says  that  he 
desires  only  one  woman  for  all  his  life,  either 
deceives  or  is  deceived.  We  wished  to  be  con* 
stant,  faithful,  and  tenacious  of  our  love,  but  it 
escaped  us  fatally,  every  day  increasingly,  till  our 
devasted  and  cold  hearts  felt  that  that  love  had 
vanished,  because  thus  it  must  be,  since  it  is  the 
law ;  since  this  brevity  is  the  essential  condition 
of  its  force  and  beauty,  and  this  brevity  is  the 
reason    of    its    perfidious    fascination.      We    have 


62  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

loved  each  other,  dearest  Mary,  for  three  years. 
A  cynic  would  tell  you  that  they  are  many,  that 
they  are  too  many — three  years.  But  remember 
that  a  cynic  always  conceals  a  soul  desolated  by 
the  reality  of  things.  I  shall  tell  you  that  the  time 
has  been  just  what  it  had  to  be,  and,  in  telling 
you  this,  how  my  heart  overflows  with  an  intense 
bitterness  against  love's  fall,  against  the  misery 
of  this  sentiment  and  its  fugacity.  Otherwise  I 
had  hoped,  lady  mine,  otherwise  we  had  hoped 
together.  We  believed,  too,  and  feared  that  un- 
happiness  and  sorrow  would  have  come  to  us  from 
outside,  from  those  whom  we  had  abandoned, 
from  laws  which  we  had  violated,  from  society 
which  we  had  offended.  Instead,  all  the  incon- 
solable sadness  of  this  moment  comes  from  our- 
selves, from  our  dead  souls,  from  our  dead  hearts 
and  senses,  where  our  love  has  lived,  but  from 
whence  it  has  disappeared,  leaving  colourless  ashes 
which  the  wind  will  carry  away.  Maria,  how  I 
should  like  to  rise  against  myself,  against  my 
mortal  weariness  and  indifference.  I  should  like 
to  galvanise  my  spirit,  resuscitate  this  corpse,  and 
I  torture  myself  in  vain,  while  tears  of  useless 
anger  course  my  cheeks.  Maria,  I  am  dying 
through  not  loving  you,  but  I  cannot  live  to  love 
you. 

'*0  dear  Maria,  I  hope  you  love  me  no  longer. 
So  it  should  be.  Do  you  remember  our  first  meet- 
ing,  in  a  box  at  the  theatre,  one  evening  when 


sous   OCCASU  63 

the  music  of  love  and  torture  was  filling  the  house 
— Les  Huguenots?  Do  you  remember  the  first 
long  devouring  glance  in  that  box,  and  the  first 
expressive  pressure  of  the  hands,  as  if  they  could 
not  disentangle  themselves  ?  We  loved  each  other 
at  the  same  instant.  We  both  abandoned  our- 
selves to  the  vortex  which  was  engulfing  us,  and 
neither  hesitated.  Neither  dragged  the  other  into 
the  delirious  circle  of  passion.  Together  we  gave 
ourselves,  blind,  mute,  conquered  and  infatuated. 
Both,  without  the  one  suggesting  it  to  the  other, 
decided  to  live  alone,  free,  obscure,  ignored  and 
forgotten,  and  neither,  in  flying  from  everything, 
trembled  at  the  mad  plan  or  hesitated.  So,  Maria, 
I  not  only  hope  but  believe  that  you  do  not  love 
me. 

**  In  your  house  of  love,  lady  mine,  in  that  house 
where  the  magnificent  flower  of  our  passion 
sprouted  and  sent  forth  its  celestial  perfumes,  in 
that  house,  which  alone  of  the  dream  will  remain 
uncancellable  in  our  minds  as  the  house  of  the 
most  beautiful  dream  of  our  lives,  I  know  you  are 
weeping  in  despair  because  you  no  longer  love 
me.  I  see  you  weeping  about  your  barren  heart, 
about  your  exhausted  soul,  your  spent  desire, 
about  everything  where  love  is  dead.  I  see  sighs 
swell  your  throat,  and  your  head  fall  convulsively 
on  your  pillow. 

"It  is  the  same  with  me,  Maria;  just  the  same. 
Never  was  love  born  with  such  consent,  never  did 


64  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

love  live  in  such  equality,  and  never  did  love  so 
disappear  from  two  conquered  and  fettered  beings. 

**  Oh,  if  I  had  to  think  differently,  Maria,  I 
should  kill  myself !  If  I  had  to  believe  that  this 
death  of  love  had  only  struck  me,  and  that  while 
I  no  longer  had  the  spark  to  give  light  and  heat 
you  were  still  burning;  if  I  had  to  see  you  still  in 
love  with  a  man  who  no  longer  loved  you,  if  this 
moral  inferiority  had  to  strike  me,  if  I  alone  had 
to  appear  deserted  by  love,  inept  to  love,  inept  to 
feel  through  my  personal  weakness  of  mind — 
Maria,  Maria,  I  should  kill  myself.  How  could  I 
live  longer,  near  to  you,  far  from  you,  loving  you 
no  more  while  you  still  loved  me,  inflicting  on  the 
dearest,  best,  most  beautiful  of  women,  upon  her 
who  alone  for  three  years  has  seemed  a  woman 
to  me,  my  indifference  ? 

*'  Maria,  write  to  me,  swear  to  me  that  you  love 
me  no  more.  I  can't  bear  the  thought  that  you 
may  still  be  burning  with  love  for  me;  I  can't  bear 
the  thought  of  grieving  you  with  the  dumbness  of 
my  mind.  Maria,  I  owe  to  you  three  years  of  per- 
fect happiness.  You  have  beautified  my  existence 
with  every  grace  and  charm  of  yours.  You  have 
lavished  all  the  treasures  of  your  heart  with  a 
generosity  and  magnificence  which  has  no  equal. 
You  have  given  me  all  yourself,  and  I  have  known 
what  exaltation  a  man  can  enjoy  without  dying 
of  too  much  joy.  And  for  this,  my  lady,  gentle 
and  proud,  for  all  this  that  I  owe  you  I  cannot 


sous   OCCASU  65 

give  you  a  sorrow  which  has  not  its  equal,  that  of 
loving  still  when  one  is  not  loved.  Swear  that 
your  desolation  is  only  for  the  dream  which  has 
vanished  in  you  as  in  me;  that  your  tears  are  of 
an  infinite  bitterness  for  love  and  not  for  me: 
that  I  am  as  a  brother  in  sorrow  and  not  a  fickle 
and  forgetful  lover;  that  you  can  think  of  me  with- 
out a  shock,  but  with  sadness  for  things  which  are 
extinct;  that  nothing  glows  in  you;  that  your  blood 
is  without  fever,  and  your  phantasy  is  without 
visions — that  you  are  like  me, 

**  And  now,  Maria,  you  have  my  life  and  your 
own  in  your  hands,  and  not  only  these  two  lives  : 
because  in  the  step  which  you  boldly  and  nobly 
took  in  abandoning  the  conjugal  roof  and  your 
husband,  in  renouncing  your  splendid  social  posi- 
tion, and  above  all  your  intact  virtue,  you  lost 
much  more,  and  to  many  3''ou  lost  all;  because 
although  in  this  union  of  passion  we  have  both 
been  happier  than  any  others  in  such  a  union  have 
ever  been,  you  appear  as  my  victim,  and  such  per- 
haps you  will  be  according  to  the  judgment  of  the 
world.  You,  Maria,  brave  and  good,  have  to  decide 
what  is  to  become  of  me,  of  you,  of  the  others. 

"  I  am  at  your  feet  to  obey  you  blindly,  and  do 
you  take  me  by  the  hand  and  show  me  the  road 
we  ought  to  traverse,  either  separated  or  together. 
Whatever  may  be  the  moral  sacrifice  you  ask  of 
me  to  save  you,  I  am  ready  to  make  it  with  en- 
thusiasm. Y«u  hav«  t«  order  me  to  livt  ©r  to 
5 


66  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

perish,  and  I  shall  live  as  you  wish ;  I  shall  perish 
by  the  death  you  choose. 

**  So  much  I  ought  to  do  for  you,  darling  Mary, 
who  threw  away  everything  to  love  and  follow  me, 
w^ho  looked  not  behind  and  sacrificed  yourself  to 
passion.  Show  me  the  way,  lead  it  wherever  it 
may ;  it  is  your  task,  and  always  was  your  task. 
!  *'  You  know,  you  only  know  what  is  necessary. 
I  have  lived  so  madly  in  our  dream  that  I  have 
forgotten  everything,  and  am  now  in  life  like  an 
ignoramus,  like  a  confused  and  disquieted  child 
unable  to  avoid  hesitation  and  to  have  a  will.  Be 
my  will,  you  who  are  stronger  than  I.  You  have 
always  been  the  stronger  because  you  possess  a 
virtue  that  is  lacking  in  me,  which  is  pride,  that 
lofty  and  shining  guide,  which  can  be  cruel  yet  is 
always  lofty.  You,  Maria,  know  what  is  neces- 
sary, and  you  ought  to  impose  it  on  me,  after 
having  imposed  it  on  yourself.  I  shall  be  like 
matter  in  your  hands  and  all  will  be  well,  since  it 
will  have  been  willed  by  you,  and  done  by  you, 
creature  of  strength,  of  goodness  and  beauty, 
sustained  by  your  shining  beacon,  your  pride. 

**  Tell  me  all  and  show  me  the  way.  In  follow- 
ing your  commandments,  the  bitter  tears  which 
I  shed  for  our  dream  will  become  slower  and 
rarer,  that  mortal  sadness  which  falls  on  those  who 
have  lost  somebody  or  something  dear  to  them 
will  little  by  little  be  conquered.  The  immense 
bitterness  will  grow  less  because  I  shall  have  done 


SOLIS   OCCASU  67 

my  duty  towards  you  who  have  been  my  happi- 
ness, and  towards  the  love  which  has  been  the 
reason  of  my  being.  Restore  to  me,  Maria,  the 
consciousness  of  being  a  man  worth  something. 
Show  me  my  duty,  and  cause  even  this  last  grati- 
tude towards  you  to  be  born  in  my  spirit.  Cause 
it  that  I  owe  you  all  my  good,  even  this  last  of 
which  I  am  ignorant,  though  it  will  be  something 
just  and  worthy  of  you,  since  it  comes  from  you, 
Maria,  blessed  to-day,  and  how  I  shall  bless  you  for 
ever,  even  till  my  death. 

"  Marco  Fiore.'* 

This  is  the  reply  which  reached  Marco  Fiore  at 
Spello  immediately. 

"  Rome,  October.  .  .  . 
**  Marco,    I   swear  that   I    no  longer  love  you. 
Come  at  once,  and  I  will  tell  you  all  that  is  neces- 
sary. 

"Maria  Guasco.*' 


VII 


A  STRONG,  cold,  almost  wintry  wind  was  blowing 
through  the  streets  of  Rome  on  an  afternoon  of 
late  October,  and  a  low  sky  with  a  mass  of  whitish- 
grey  clouds  was  hanging  over  the  semi-circle  of 
the  Esedra  di  Termini.  Little  whirlwinds  of  dust 
rolled  from  the  Esquiline  and  the  Viminal  towards 
ancient  Rome,  while  dead  leaves  issuing  from  the 
gardens  of  the  suburban  villas,  gyrating,  and  small 
squares,  still  rolled  along. 

Marco,  who  had  just  arrived,  trembled  with  cold, 
as  he  crossed  on  foot  the  little  distance  which 
separated  the  Stazione  di  Termini  from  Santa 
Maria  Maggiore.  In  spite  of  his  courage,  which 
he  knew  had  been  inspired  by  the  soul  of  Maria 
Guasco,  a  dumb  fear  agitated  him,  a  fear  of  the 
present,  a  fear  of  the  future.  He  was  experienc- 
ing the  agonising  terror  of  life,  when  in  certain 
supreme  moments  a  man  seems  conquered  by 
all  the  hostile  forces  within  and  without  him.  How- 
ever, he  did  not  hesitate  a  moment  to  enter  the 
villa.  He  went  towards  his  destiny  with  a  soul 
in  trepidation  but  with  a  firm  step.  The  pro- 
found faith  which  he  had  in  Maria's  heart,  a  faith 

experienced  apart  from  passion  and  love,  alone  sus- 

68 


SOLIS   OCCASU  69 

tained  him,  and  once  again  he  sought  from  her  the 
source  of  his  strength  in  the  hour  of  sorrow  and 
torment. 

But  when  she  appeared,  and  he  understood  that 
he  was  seeing  her  for  the  last  time,  dressed  as  she 
was  in  black,  so  exquisite,  so  noble  in  her  mourn- 
ing, so  disdainfully  proud  as  she  looked  at  him 
with  a  glance  of  intense  sorrow,  his  heart  was 
tormented  with  an  immense  desolation,  and  hold- 
ing and  caressing  her  hands  like  a  child,  he  wept 
bigger  tears  than  he  had  ever  wept.  Holding  his 
hands  in  hers  and  sitting  beside  him  Maria  wept 
without  sobs,  and  her  tears  coursed  silently  down 
her  face  while  she  bowed  her  head  in  silence,  as  if 
unable  to  pronounce  a  single  word. 

**  Everything  is  finished,  Maria,  everything," 
sighed  Marco. 

She  was  silent. '  Her  tears  ceased  the  first,  but 
her  face  was  composed  in  a  febrile  pallor.  He  kept 
lamenting  brokenly,  **  Finished,  all  is  finished,'* 
like  the  burden  of  a  death  agony.  Slowly  their 
embrace  relaxed.  For  some  moments  they  found 
nothing  to  say.  But  again  her  pale  worn  face 
agonised  his  heart. 

**  Maria,  I  have  loved  you  deeply!"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

**  I  know  it,"  she  replied  gravely.  *'  Your  love 
has  given  sun  to  my  life,  and  its  reflection  and 
warmth  will  remain  with  me  till  death." 

**  I  shall  never  love  a  woman  again  like  you, 


70  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

Mary,  who  have  been  all  mine,"  he  said  deso- 
lately. 

*'  None,  Marco,'*  continued  Maria,  lowering  her 
eyelids  to  hide  the  expression  of  her  eyes,  "and 
so  it  ought  to  be." 

**  I  shall  never  forget  you,  you  who  have  been 
all  my  ardour  and  sweetness,"  he  added,  still 
desolately. 

"  You  ought  not  to  forget  me,  dear  love  of  mine, 
you  ought  not  to." 

**  Well  then,  Maria,  why  is  everything  ended?" 

**  For  this  reason,"  she  replied  enigmatically. 

**  I  want  to  love  you  all  my  life  passionately." 

**  It  isn't  possible,  it  isn't  possible.  Love  doesn't 
last  for  life.    Life  is  so  long,  love  is  so  short." 

"Oh,  what  sadness,  INIaria !  what  sadness!  I 
shall  never  console  myself." 

"  I  too  shall  never  console  myself,  Marco, 
never." 

Again  they  were  silent,  desperate  and  bowed 
down  beneath  their  fate,  as  if  separated  by  an  iron 
wall  and  divided  in  soul,  incapable  of  passing  over 
or  breaking  down  that  wall.  They  felt  as  well  the 
weight  of  time  which  was  falling  on  their  heads, 
and  the  mortal  tedium  which  was  enveloping  them 
in  that  so  far  profitless  conversation. 

He  felt  the  uselessHess  of  tears  and  words,  and 
with  a  renewal  of  life  said — 

"  What  shall  we  do,  Maria?" 

"  Our  duty,"  she  replied  severely • 


SOLIS   OCCASU  71 

**  To  whom  have  we  a  duty  to  fulfil,  Maria?  To 
what?" 

**  We  have  a  duty  first  of  all  to  ourselves, 
Marco.  And  that  is  to  live  in  truth  and  liberty  of 
soul.  Since  our  love  is  ended  and  our  dream  of 
happiness  is  over,  let  us  not  lie  an  instant  longer, 
and  separate." 

*'  For  ever,  Mary?" 

"  For  ever,  Marco." 

**  Shall  I  never  see  you  again,  my  friend?" 

**  I  shall  not  see  you,  and  you  will  not  seek  me. 
We  will  fly  as  far  as  we  can  and  ought  from  each 
other." 

"That  is  very  cruel,  Maria." 

**  Yes,  it  is  very  cruel,  but  it  has  to  be  done." 

**  I  shall  suffer  very  much,  because,  apart  from 
passion  and  love,  you  are  very  dear  to  me." 

"You  are  very  dear  to  me,  my  friend,"  she 
added,  with  a  fresh  veil  of  sorrow  in  her  voice, 
**  but  it  is  necessary." 

"  But  what  will  become  of  me,  Maria?  Tell  me. 
What  will  become  of  me?  What  shall  I  do? 
Where  shall  I  go  to  lie  me  down  ?  How  will  my 
life  go  on  ?  Where  shall  I  tie  it  that  the  knot 
does  not  come  undone?" 

She  did  not  reply  at  once.  Her  eyes  w^ere  closed 
as  if  to  concentrate  her  thoughts,  and  her  mouth 
was  firm  as  if  to  close  her  words ;  her  hands,  loaded 
with  jewels,  were  crossed  over  her  knees  in  a 
familiar  gesture. 


72  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

**  Maria,  Maria,  I  have  come  purposely  to  ask 
you  this,  because  you  ought  to  tell  me,  because  I 
do  not  know  and  you  do.  What  will  become  of 
me  without  you  ?  What  shall  I  do  with  my  soul  ? 
What  shall  I  do  with  my  days?  Maria,  think  of 
me.  Succour  me,  my  friend,  my  sister,  source  of 
all  my  comfort.     Tell  me,  tell  me." 

A  shadow  of  a  smile,  a  bitter  shadow  of  a  smile, 
traced  itself  on  Maria  Guasco*s  lips  at  the  uneasi- 
ness of  the  man's  convulsed  conscience. 

"Well,"  she  said,  softly  and  slowly,  "after 
doing  our  duty  towards  ourselves  in  separating, 
we  have  to  accomplish  it  towards  others,  Marco." 

**  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

She  looked  him  squarely  in  the  eyes,  and  said — 

**  You  will  marry  Vittoria  Casalta,  Marco." 

•*  No." 

**  You  will  marry  her;  she  loves  you." 

"  I  don't  love  her." 

**  What  does  it  matter  ?  Thousands  of  marriages 
are  made  so.  She  has  loved  you  for  years,  and 
you  were  betrothed.  You  have  betrayed  her.  She 
has  waited,  and  she  is  a  patient  creature.  She 
has  waited,  and,  see,  she  was  right  to  wait." 

"  I  can't  marry  her  with  a  heart  devastated  by 
passion,  with  an  unconsolable  regret." 

"  Marco,  hearts  are  healed.  Yours  will  heal. 
Regrets  go  to  sleep  at  the  bottom  of  the  soul,  and 
one  day  you  will  wake  up  consoled.  You  ought  to 
marry  Vittoria  Casalta." 


SOLIS   OCCASU  73 

"Ought  I  to?" 

**  You  ought  to.  She  has  suffered  for  you.  She 
doesn't  deserve  to  suffer.  She  is  good,  they  say; 
I  don't  know.  Anyhow,  she  has  suffered.  Since 
your  heart  is  empty,  and  your  spirit  has  no  goal, 
since  your  soul  has  no  pasture,  fill  your  heart  with 
charity  towards  a  sufferer,  give  an  affectionate 
scope  to  your  existence,  create  a  pleasing  duty  of 
reparation,  and  heal  the  wounds  you  have  made  by 
marrying  Vittoria  Casalta." 

Maria  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  slowly,  but  sugges- 
tively and  persuasively.  Marco's  face  grew  paler 
and  his  lips  were  white.  He  recognised  that  an 
immense  effort  was  uplifting  her  courage  to  say  all 
that  she  was  saying,  and  he  regarded  her  with 
profound  admiration  as  he  touched  her  hand  lightly 
to  kiss  it,  which  he  did  almost  timorously.  A  cry 
escaped  his  breast. 

*'  Maria,  I  can't  be  happy  with  Vittoria  Casalta." 

**  You  can't  be;  that  is  true.  You  have  been 
happy,  too  happy  perhaps.  You  can't  be  happy 
again.  And  what  does  it  matter?  Content  your- 
self in  giving  happiness  to  her  who  has  suffered  so 
much  for  you.     That  is  a  great  deal." 

**  That  will  not  suffice  for  me,  Maria.'-* 

*'You  want  too  much  from  life,  Marco,"  she 
said,  shaking  her  head;  **  you  must  give  something 
instead.  Vittoria  Casalta  has  suffered  secret  tor- 
ture for  three  years.  You  ought  to  marry  her  to 
sweeten  her  existence  and  render  her  happiness." 


74  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

He  became  silent  and  thoughtful,  and  she,  who 
was  used  to  reading  almost  the  ideas  of  his  mind 
on  his  forehead,  saw  the  doubt  there. 

'*  Vittoria  desires  nothing  else  but  to  pardon  you 
and  open  her  arms  to  you,  Marco.'* 

He  looked  at  her,  but  did  not  reply.  An  almost 
definite  silence  fell  between  them.  This  part  of 
their  conversation  was  concluded.  It  seemed  as  if 
there  was  nothing  else  to  be  said ;  that  they  under- 
stood each  other.  Marco  was  the  first  to  express 
this  feeling. 

**  And  you,  Maria?" 

**I,  Marco?" 

**  Yes,  you.     What  will  you  do?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  an  act  of  com- 
plete indifference,  and  did  not  reply. 

"Will  you  return  to  your  husband?" 

"  I  shall  return,"  she  said  coldly. 
I     **  Will   you    return   willingly,    Maria?"    he   ex- 
claimed sorrowfully,  but  without  a  trace  of  anger 
in  his  voice. 

*'  Not  willingly.  I  am  going  to  return  because 
I  ought  to." 

"Won't  you  suffer  in  returning?  Tell  me, 
Maria." 

"  I  shall  suffer,  that  is  true,"  she  declared  pre- 
cisely, "but  I  ought  to  suffer,  it  seems.  I  have 
been  intoxicated  with  happiness  and  liberty,  my 
friend.  One  pays  for  such  things,.  Here  I  am 
ready  to  pay.'* 


SOLIS   OCCASU  7^ 

**  How  will  you  live  with  him?'* 

**  As  I  can.  I  shall  do  my  best,  and  shall  try 
to  do  my  duty.  Emilio,  too,  has  suffered  through 
my  betrayal.  In  returning  to  him  I  must  do  what 
I  can  to  make  him  forget  his  suffering." 

**  But  you  don't  love  him." 

**  I  don't  love  him,  and  I  can't  love  him  again. 
I  am  exhausted.  My  heart  has  lived  as  much  as 
it  can,  and  it  can  do  no  more.  But  I  can,  however, 
have  great  pity  for  him,  great  sweetness,  and  great 
friendship  to  make  him  forget  the  torture  I  have 
inflicted  on  him." 

Again,  before  the  force  of  energy  which  was 
exalting  her  and  with  which  she  was  struggling, 
Marco  felt  a  great  emotion  invade  him,  a  melan- 
choly enthusiasm  for  the  moral  martyrdom  which 
she  was  enduring,  and  forgot  his  own  immense 
pain.     And  anew^  a  lament  escaped  his  lips. 

**Poor  Maria!" 

'*  Ah,  pity  me,  pity  me;  you  are  right!"  she 
cried,  twisting  her  hands  in  agitation,  **  I  am  an 
unfortunate." 

**  We  are  two  unfortunates!"  he  exclaimed, 
taking  her  to  his  arms  and  kissing  her  on  her  hair 
and  eyes. 

She  repelled  him,  and  drying  her  tears  composed 
herself. 

But  he,  as  he  felt  the  moments  of  their  last  meet- 
ing flying,  and  the  unsupportable  pain  of  a  farewell 
which  was  rending  his  soul,  resisted  the  more. 


76  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

**  Maria,  Maria,  let  us  remain  together,  I  implore 
you." 

*'  No,  Marco,  no." 

**  I  can't  live  without  you,  my  love." 

**  You  deceive  yourself." 

**  I  see  myself  dying  if  I  leave  you,  Maria." 

**  You  deceive  yourself." 

*'  I  still  want  you.     I  want  you  always." 

*'  You  deceive  yourself." 

"I  love  you,  Maria.  I  swear  it;  I  love 
you." 

**  You  lie !"  she  cried,  with  a  voice  vibrant  with 
anger  and  with  a  heightened  complexion. 

**  I  love  you,  I  love  you,"  he  cried  more  weakly. 

•*  You  lie!     You  lie!" 

**  I  love  you,"  he  murmured,  with  lowered  eyes. 

"Have  you  understood  that  you  are  lying?" 
she  said.     '*  Be  silent." 

So  all  was  ended.  Even  this  last  rebellion  of 
Marco's  soul  evaporated,  leaving  him  cold  and 
dumb.  His  very  torment,  given  its  supreme  grief, 
seemed  to  quieten  into  torpor.  The  large  emotions 
which  he  had  just  experienced  left  him  exhausted 
with  a  disgust  of  himself  and  life.  White  and 
done  up  he  lay  upon  the  sofa  scarcely  noticing  the 
woman  at  his  side.  She  herself,  spent  by  the  long 
spiritual  struggle  maintained  with  herself  and  him, 
lay  with  closed  mouth,  her  beautiful  chestnut  hair 
with  its  deep  shining  waves  had  fallen  about  her 
neck,  and  her  head  had  fallen  forward  listlessly. 


SOLIS   OCCASU  77 

Each  was  far  away,  full  of  thought  and  sorrow 
for  the  new  life  so  uncertain  and  doubtful  which 
was  presenting  itself  to  their  gaze,  and  each  was 
trying  to  read  the  unknown  words  of  their  new 
fate. 

Both  felt  themselves  in  the  great  obscurity  to 
be  without  energy,  to  have  spent  everything,  to 
have  lost  all  in  the  high  crisis  of  detachment. 

How  long  this  sad  absorption  lasted  they  did 
not  know. 

It  was  already  dusk  when  Maria  started,  and 
desired  that  everything  should  be  ended  fittingly 
between  them.  Silently  she  rose  and  giving  him 
her  hand  led  him  into  the  bedroom,  to  the  room 
which  had  been  theirs.  Near  the  bed,  upon  a  back- 
ground of  dark-blue  velvet,  an  old  crucifix  of 
yellowish  ivory  was  hanging,  and  the  face  of  the 
Martyr  was  full  of  profound  and  yet  serene  sorrow. 

She  looked  at  the  Christ  who  had  died  for  love 
and  duty,  for  the  desire  of  the  salvation  of  every 
suffering  soul. 

**  Do  you  remember,  Marco,  we  did  not  dare 
to  invoke  the  blessing  of  Mary,  the  most  pure,  on 
our  love,  but  before  Him  who  understood  all  and 
pardoned  all,  who  was  God,  but  was  also  man, 
who  sees  all,  and  who  raised  all  to  heaven,  we 
^*  asked  Jesus  to  consecrate  our  knot?'* 

"Yes,  Maria,"  he  murmured,  regarding  the 
anguished  but  tranquil  face  of  the  Son  of  man. 

*'  Before  Him  we  united  ourselves  for  lifb  and 


78  AFTER   THE   PARDON 

death.  I  obtained  your  promise  of  love  and 
fidelity,  Marco." 

**  I  have  kept  it,  Maria." 

**  It  is  not  our  fault  if  the  knot  is  undone,  if  our 
eternity  has  only  lasted  three  years.  That  is  out- 
side us,  Marco.  But  we  were  faithful,  and  if  love 
has  deserted  us  it  means  that  life  is  fleeting,  and 
that  human  forces  are  weak.  We  were  as  faithful 
as  we  could  be.  I  have  loved  you,  Marco,  above 
everything  and  everybody." 

**  And  so  have  I  loved  you,  Maria." 

**  Well,  let  us  release  ourselves  to-day  before 
Him,  suffering  profoundly,  but  knowing  that  we 
have  done  what  is  possible  to  be  worthy  of  our 
passion,  having  never  lied,  having  never  deceived. 
Let  us  release  ourselves,  suffering  like  Him,  but 
with  the  knowledge  that  this  suffering  is  not  use- 
less, dedicating  it  as  we  do  to  the  consolation  of 
others,  to  the  happiness  of  others." 

"  Let  it  be  so,  Maria,"  he  said  piously. 

They  stood  a  little  in  silence  before  the  crucifix, 
as  if  praying  mentally.  A  sigh  escaped  Maria 
Guasco's  tired  bosom. 

*'  I  shall  keep  all  I  have  of  yours,  Maria,"  he 
murmured  in  a  weak  and  tremulous  voice,  "  I  could 
never  separate  myself  from  them." 

*'  Nor  I,  Marco." 

In  truth  their  anguish  had  become  unbearable, 
they  had  cruelly  prolonged  their  martyrdom. 


SOLIS   OCCASU  79 

"Good-bye,  Marco!"  she  exclaimed  almost  in- 
audibly,  bending  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

**  Good-bye,  Maria,"  he  said,  with  a  short  but 
almost  frenzied  embrace. 

"  ToujourSy  toujour Sy  Marco,"  she  said  once 
again  brokenly. 

'*  ToujourSj  Maria,  toujour s,''  he  replied 
desperately. 

Then  he  left. 

She  heard  nothing.  She  knew  about  herself, 
about  the  whole  world  revolving  in  its  immense 
concentration  around  her,  but  every  sense  of  per- 
sons, of  space,  and  of  time  was  ignored  by  her  for 
several  hours  in  that  deserted  room.  When  she 
awoke  from  this  long  absence  from  life,  she  found 
nothing  within  her  but  bitterness,  such  a  great 
bitterness  that  it  seemed  as  if  her  body  and  soul 
had  been  poisoned  for  ever.  Since  all  that  had 
seemed  lasting  to  her  and  alone  worthy  to  be  last- 
ing was  dispersed  and  finished  with,  since  the  only 
lofty  outstanding  reason  of  life — love — was  ended, 
she  felt  a  nauseating  disgust  of  that  mediocre 
thing,  existence,  with  its  false  and  fugitive  sen- 
sations. 

Marco  went  as  one  mad  through  the-  streets  of 
Rome,  already  gloomy  with  falling  night,  and 
swept  by  chilly  winds  beneath  the  low  nocturnal 
clouds.  For  some  time  he  w^andered  aimlessly, 
like  a  dead  leaf  detached  from  a  tree,  and  felt  him- 


8o  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

self  dispersed  in  the  shadowy  cold  and  solitude. 
He  felt  it  useless  to  call  for  aid,  since  the  only 
thing  which  could  succour  him — love — was  dead. 
He  felt  that  he  too  was  dead,  and  that  he  could 
never  rise  again. 


PART   II 

THE   PARDON 

I 

Whisperings,  now  slow  now  more  frequent, 
filled  the  top  of  the  church  dedicated  to  Santa 
Maria  del  Popolo,  where  the  guests  invited  to  the 
wedding  were  gathered  before  the  high  altar,  while 
the  rest  of  the  large  central  nave  preserved  the 
usual  solitude  and  silence  of  Roman  temples. 
Around  the  high  altar  were  placed  large  clumps  of 
palms,  and  white  azaleas  with  such  a  wealth  of 
bloom  that  they  seemed  as  white  as  snow,  without 
the  shadow  of  a  leaf  between  flower  and  flower. 
Some  soft  dark  carpets  descended  from  the  altar  as 
far  as  the  first  row  of  seats.  The  rest  of  the 
church,  the  greater  part  of  it,  which  it  would  have 
been  vain  to  decorate,  kept  its  cold,  marbled,  and 
imposing  aspect. 

Now  and  then   the   guests,    politely   festraining 

their  impatience,   turned  towards  the  great  door, 

which  was  open  to  the  limpid  spring  sky,  to  watch 

if  the  couple,  already  late,  had  arrived.     Compared 

with  the  vastness  of  the  church,  and  in  spite  of 
6  8i 


82  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

their  large  numbers,  they  seemed  a  very  small 
group  near  the  high  altar  in  an  oasis  of  plants  and 
flowers. 

All  the  relations  of  Casa  Fiore  were  there,  to- 
gether with  the  Casalta,  who  are  not  Romans  but 
Neapolitans,  of  remote  Neapolitan  origin  but  liv- 
ing in  Rome  for  two  or  three  generations.  Many 
had  come  from  the  outskirts  of  Rome,  from 
Umbria  and  Campania,  to  be  present  at  the 
marriage  of  Marco  Fiore  and  Vittoria  Casalta,  a 
marriage  so  resisted  by  fate  that  for  a  time  it  had 
seemed  quite  broken  off,  but  which  had  at  last 
become  a  reality.  There  was  much  whispering 
over  the  strange  story,  the  lateness  of  the  couple, 
and  the  great  size  of  the  church. 

'*  How  has  the  bridegroom  behaved  during  this 
second  betrothal?" 

*'  Perfectly." 

**  Is  he  very  much  in  love?" 

'*  Full  of  affection." 

**  Enamoured?" 

*'  With  ideal  delicacy." 

*'  How  large  this  church  is  I" 

**But  beautiful." 

"The  church  of  Lucretia  Borgia,  is  it  not?" 

"  Certainly.  You  know  that  Gregorovius  has 
rehabilitated  Lucretia?" 

"Aren't  you  cold?" 

**  Very  cold;  I  would  gladly  go  out." 

**  Oh,  they'll  come,  they'll  come." 


THE    PARDON  83 

*'  They  are  thirty-five  minutes  late. 
**  Do  you  think  that  a  lot?     At  the  marriage  of 
Giovanella    Farnese    we    had    to   wait    nearly    an 
hour." 

"What  bad  form;  don't  you  think  so?" 
*'  Is  it  true  that  the  bride  is  very  happy?" 
**  Diamine  !     Hasn't  she  waited  four  years  for 
the  faithless  one  !" 

"  Only  patient  women  are  right  in  this  world." 
*'  Does  she  show  her  happiness?     I  want  to  see 
her  face  as  she  comes  into  church."  • 

''You  will  gather  nothing  from  it;  you  know 
that  Vittoria  is  most  reserved."  ' 

**  Too  reserved;  she  is  icy,  like  this  church." 
**  But    why    not    have    the    marriage    in    Santa 
Maria  della  Vittoria?     It  is  a  small  church  and 
beautiful." 

*'  It  belongs  to  Casa  Colonna,  and  the  Colohna 
reserve  it  for  their  own  marriages." 
**  Hush  !  Hush  !  Here  they  come  I" 
Suddenly  the  whispering  ceased;  the  notes  of 
the  organ  sounded,  heavy  and  sonorous,  waking 
all  the  echoes  of  the  church.  It  was  an  organ 
placed  up  above,  on  the  epistle  side  of  the  altar, 
and  the  organist  was  invisible  from  b'elow.  He 
ought  to  have  been  signaled  to,  for  from  his  in- 
visible hands  en  the  stops  escaped  the  profound 
and  solemn  melody  of  Beethoven's  wedding  march, 
so  that  every  one  rose  to  their  feet  to  honour  the 
bridal  pair,  who  surely  had  reached  the  church  door 


84  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

at  that  moment,  to  be  accompanied  on  their  pro- 
cession to  the  high  aUar  by  Beethoven's  music, 
which  is  a  noble  greeting  and  invitation,  the  ex- 
pression of  fine  desire,  and  the  satisfaction  of  a 
strong  and  calm  affection. 

The  well-known  notes  rolled  along  among  the 
arches  of  Santa  Maria  del  Popolo.  The  guests 
stood  silent  and  attentive  behind  their  seats,  but 
still  no  one  entered.  The  march  continued  in  its 
beauty  and  gravity;  the  tones  grew  less  and  were 
extinguished.  Silence  reigned  again.  With  a 
noise  somewhat  louder  and  whisperings  a  little 
stronger,  the  guests — the  Ottoboni,  Savelli,  Far- 
nese,  Aldrobrandini,  Caracciolo  del  Sole,  Carafa 
— reseated  themselves.  The  top  of  the  church  took 
more  than  ever  the  familiar  appearance  of  a  draw- 
ing-room. Groups  were  formed  and  seats  were 
turned  round;  there  was  even  a  little  laughter.  In 
the  midst  of  the  general  distraction  the  couple  and 
their  escort  quite  suddenly  passed  up  the  church 
and  reached  the  high  altar,  greeted  by  none  and 
unaccompanied  by  the  music. 

**  That's  an  entry  missed!"  exclaimed  Gianni 
Provana,  with  a  slight  and  amiable  grin. 

»  *  *  -x-  *  ♦ 

In  the  white  cloud  of  her  satin  dress  and  in  the 
fleecy  white  cloud  of  her  veil,  the  bride  knelt  at  a 
prie-dieu  of  brown  carved  wood  on  which  had  been 
placed  a  cushion  of  dark-red  velvet.  On  this 
cushion  she  placed  her  bouquet  of  orange-blossoms 


THE    PARDON  85 

with  its  long  white  satin  ribbon,  and  while  the 
religious  rite  proceeded  read  from  her  Prayer-book, 
a  little  book  bound  in  white  and  silver  brocade; 
and  her  blonde  head  was  slightly  bent  as  she 
read.  The  bridegroom  was  kneeling  beside  her  at 
another  prie-dieu,  also  with  bent  head,  thoughtful 
and  collected.  The  Fiore  have  a  long  reputation 
for  religious  piety  in  the  family,  and  perhaps  con- 
quered by  the  moment  he  was  praying  like  a 
Christian  to  his  God. 

After  the  function  had  begun  he  glanced  two 
or  three  times  at  Vittoria  almost  questioningly,  for 
according  to  Italian  tradition  he  had  not  led  her 
to  the  altar.  As  she  had  no  father  alive  she  had 
been  brought  by  her  eldest  brother,  and  at  the 
house  he  had  only  exchanged  a  rapid  greeting  in 
the  presence  of  everybody.  Marco  looked  at  his 
bride  to  read  her  thoughts  and  measure  her  emo- 
tions, but  Vittoria's  face,  in  its  indefinably  white 
and  virginal  purity,  had  the  virtue  of  never,  or 
scarcely  ever,  revealing  the  secret  which  was 
weighing  on  the  mind.  She  kept  her  eyes  bent 
over  the  pages  of  her  Prayer-book,  and,  as  she 
repeated  the  words  of  the  prayers,  her  delicate  and 
sinuous  lips,  accustomed  to  silence  and  mystery, 
scarcely  seemed  to  move. 

The  special  moment  arrived.  Interrupting  the 
Mass,  after  the  first  Gospel,  before  the  Elevation, 
the  celebrant  turned  to  the  couple  and  summoned 
them  to  him.     They  rose  from  their  knees,   and 


86  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

mounted  the  two  steps  of  the  sanctuary,  where 
they  prostrated  themselves.  Fabrizio  Ottobone,  the 
master  of  the  ceremonies,  placed  himself  beside 
them,  a  tall,  thin  old  man,  with  flowing  whiskers, 
and  in  spite  of  his  age  a  very  good  figure.  The 
usual  form  of  marriage  rite  proceeded  very  slowly. 
Vittoria's  right  hand  w^as  still  gloved,  and  at  a 
word  whispered  in  her  ear  by  Fabrizio  Ottobone, 
she  tried  to  take  the  glove  off  quickly.  Not  suc- 
ceeding she  tore  at  it  and  stripped  it  off  her  fingers, 
and  at  last  the  little  right  hand  was  stretched  on 
that  of  Marco  Fiore's.  The  priest  pronounced  the 
sacred  w^ords  which  demand  the  assent  of  the  man 
and  the  woman,  and  when  obtained  he  declared 
them  united  in  the  name  of  God.  The  little  hand 
was  closed  in  Marco's;  he  felt  it  tremble  like  a 
leaf.  He  pressed  it  in  vain,  as  if  to  give  it  the 
strength  of  a  promise  and  the  support  of  an  oath, 
and  yet  the  little  hand  trembled  incessantly. 

Marco  looked  at  his  wife  intently.  On  her  pure 
face,  in  every  beautiful  line,  in  the  fold  of  the  fine 
taciturn  mouth,  and  in  the  limpid  and  clear  eyes 
he  read  in  a  flash  such  anguish  mixed  with  hope; 
he  read  there  anxiety,  uncertainty,  and  fear,  so 
that  all  his  man's  heart  filled  with  pity  for  her 
loving,  suffering,  and  fearing.  An  immense  pity 
welled  in  his  heart,  and  not  being  able  at  that 
moment  to  speak  a  single  word  to  her,  he  bent  his 
head  and  prayed  with  all  his  might  to  have  the 
power  to  console  the  woman  who  loved  him. 


THE    PARDON  87 

Meanwhile,  after  completing  the  nuptial  union, 
the  priest  stepped  back  to  the  altar  to  continue  the 
Mass,  and  the  couple,  now  bound  for  life,  returned 
to  their  places.  The  organ  again  played  music 
well  known  to  all  feeling  souls.  After  the  firgt 
chords  from  the  invisible  organist  had  sounded  a 
cantor  took  his  place,  also  invisible,  but  whose 
sonorous  voice  diffused  itself  throughout  the 
church,  and  was  listened  to  with  a  sigh  of  satis- 
faction by  those  who  recognised  the  sympathetic 
timbre  of  a  well-known  tenor.  He  sang  the  aria 
di  chiesa  of  Alessandro  Stradella.  It  is  a  prayer 
offered  to  a  God  of  clemency  and  mercy,  but  it 
is  one  of  those  musical  prayers  more  vibrant  in 
its  mortal  sadness  than  the  human  voice  in  its 
emotional  notes  can  pour  forth.  With  the  com- 
placency of  an  artiste,  and  perhaps  with  sincerity, 
the  famous  singer  lent  to  the  lament  of  Stradella 
an  emphasis  more  sorrowful  and  harrowing  than 
ever.  The  listeners  were  taken  and  subdued  by 
it.  Some  turned  anxiously  to  the  organ ;  several 
women  in  particular  became  pale  with  emotion, 
and  their  eyes  were  clouded  by  tears. 

Behind  her  soft  veil  Vittoria  Casalta  let  her  tears 
fall  silently  one  by  one  down  her  cheeks,  nor  did 
she  make  the  slightest  attempt  to  dry  them,  and 
only  Marco  could  see  that  silefnt  weeping.  He 
leant  towards  her  a  little. 

**  Vittoria,  don't  cry." 

She   made    no   reply,    only   a   slight   movement 


88  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

of  the  hand  to  ask  his  silence,  to  ask  him  not  to 
bother  about  her  crying.  He  became  silent.  But 
up  above  the  unseen,  but  not  unknown,  singer  kept 
on  singing  passionately  the  prayer,  so  singular  for 
a  wedding-day,  with  its  peculiar  and  painful  words  : 
*'  Pietd,  Signore,  di  me  dolente.''  Again  all 
hearts  were  touched  and  all  souls  secretly  struck, 
for  there  were  in  that  society,  rich  and  almost 
scintillating  with  exterior  happiness,  and  among 
those  exquisitely  dressed  women  covered  with 
jewels,  many  who  had  suffered,  and  all  such  felt 
the  power  of  the  melody,  where  the  soul  cries  to 
her  God  in  waves  of  agony. 

The  bride  continued  to  weep  silently. 

**  Vittoria,  you  must  not  cry  !"  murmured  Marco 
Fiore  softly,  but  with  virile  energy  in  his  low  voice. 
She  made  a  slight  nod  of  obedience;  gradually 
her  tears  dried,  and  her  face  became  composed. 
Stradella's  air  was  finished,  the  song  gave  forth 
its  last  sobs,  and  silence  reigned  again.  But  in 
the  silence  there  was  a  sigh  of  bitterness  from 
some  breast  still  oppressed ;  among  the  rest  almost 
a  feeling  of  relief  and  a  subdued  whispering. 

*' What  a  singer,  that  Varisco!" 

**  Divine." 

*'  He  makes  such  an  impression  on  me.*' 

**  That  air  of  Stradella's  is  so  beautiful.'* 

**  But  what  an  idea  to  sing  such  an  air  at  a 
marriage  !" 

*'  It  is  sung  everywhere.** 


THE    PARDON  89 

*'  But  it  is  too,  too  sad/' 

**  Do  you  think  matrimony  such  a  gay  matter?" 
*'  Does  this  seem  to  you  the  moment  to  say  such 
a  thing?" 

"  Well,  why  did  you  cry?" 
"  Crying  does  one  good  every  now  and  then." 
*'  In  my  time  we  laughed  at  weddings." 
"  Now  we  manage  better." 
*'  Be  quiet,  be  quiet,  it  is  the  Elevation." 
At  a  hint  which  reached  him  the  celebrant 
hurried  the  end  of  the  Mass.  It  was  late;  the 
young  couple  had  delayed  so  much,  and  the  day 
had  been  completely  disorganised  thereby.  A 
baritone  sang  in  haste  the  O  Salutaris  Hos,tia,  and 
was  scarcely  listened  to;  the  special  marriage 
prayers  before  the  second  Gospel  were  said  with 
much  rapidity.  Every  one  had  the  air  of  want- 
ing to  get  up  and  leave  even  before  it  was  time 
to  do  so,  since  they  had  been  in  church  nearly 
two  hours.  There  was  a  sound  of  chairs  being 
moved,  and  even  some  footsteps  resounded  on  the 
marble  pavement  before  the  end.  The  procession 
was  again  formed  at  the  high  altar.  This  time 
the  bridegroom  gave  his  arm  to  the  bride,  and, 
after  having  kissed  their  nearest  relations,  they 
descended  the  steps  of  the  altar  together.  Marco 
Fiore's  slightly  fragile  good  looks  had  for  some 
time  assumed  a  more  virile  appearance,  his 
physiognomy,  which  formerly  was  gracious  and 
sweet  with  something  feminine  in  it,  was  composed 


go  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

and  settled  in  an  expression  of  thought  and  peace. 
The  bride  beside  him,  tall,  but  not  too  tall,  fairly- 
slender  with  a  white  face  beneath  a  shining  wave 
of  golden  hair,  with  clear  and  lively  eyes,  over 
which  now  and  then  a  cloud  seemed  to  pass,  with 
her  little  mouth  like  a  closed  flower,  seemed  made 
to  be  supported  and  protected  by  the  man.  As 
they  proceeded  slowly  through  the  church  to  gather 
the  congratulations  and  greetings,  the  organ 
sounded  again  for  the  last  time  to  accompany 
them  out. 

It  was  another  march,  the  one  with  which  the 
knights  and  ladies  of  Thuringia  accompanied  Elsa 
of  Brabant  and  Lohengrin,  the  son  of  Parsifal, 
to  the  nuptial  chamber.  Involuntarily  the  proces- 
sion regulated  its  step  to  the  rhythm  of  Wagner's 
music,  while  after  it  had  passed  the  whispering 
began  again. 

"  Marco  Fiore  is  always  sympathetic." 

**  He  doesn't  seem  exuberantly  happy  to  me." 

**  Do  you  want  him  to  start  dancing?" 

*'  How  charming  the  bride  is!" 

''Poor  thing!" 

*'  Why  do  you  pity  her?" 

"  I  always  pity  girls  who  get  married." 

*'  Yes,  she  is  very  pretty,  it  is  true,  but  I  prefer 
the  other.'' 

*'The  other?     Which  other?" 

**  Oh,  you  know  quite  well  !     Maria  Guasco." 

**  Sst !     You  might  be  overheard." 


THE    PARDON  91 

**  No,  no;  I  liked  the  other  very  much.  She  was 
a  woman.*' 

"  Don't  raise  your  voice." 

**This  one  is  a  figure  for  a  picture;  I  should 
place  her  in  a  frame  and  leave  her  there." 

**  You  are  very  naughty." 

*'  Is  everything  over,  then,  between  Marco  and 
Maria?" 

"  Everything,  for  six  or  seven  months.'* 

*'  Do  you  believe  in  this  ending?" 

**  I?     What  does  it  matter  what  I  believe?" 

**Poor  girl!" 

**  There  !     You  see  I  was  right  to  pity  her." 

The  music,  spreading  through  the  large  central 
nave,  still  followed  the  bridal  couple  and  the  long 
procession  of  guests  with  its  sonorous  and  precise 
notes.  No  word  passed  between  them,  and  they 
contented  themselves  with  a  handshake  to  the 
good  wishes  which  accompanied  their  passage; 
only  at  a  certain  point  it  seemed  to  Vittoria  as 
if  Marco's  face  was  troubled  by  a  secret  idea 
crossing  his  spirit.  Suddenly  her  little  white- 
gloved  hand  imperceptibly  held  his  arm  on  which 
she  was  leaning,  as  she  asked  him  with  a  tremor 
in  her  voice — 

"  Marco,  what  is  the  matter?" 

**  Nothing,"  he  replied,  seized  by  his  secret  and 
obscure  thought. 

Wagner's  music  seemed  to  exhale  a  powerful 
and  settled  joy  which  rocked  the  deep  love  of  Elsa 


92  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

and  Lohengrin,  and  spoke  to  them  of  a  future  of 
soft  and  constant  passion,  even  until  death.  But 
Marco's  face  became  more  clouded,  as  if  his  secret 
imaginings  had  mastered  him. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Marco?"  Vittoria  asked 
again  a  little  anxiously,  holding  him  back  almost 
at  the  threshold  of  the  church,  as  if  she  was  un- 
willing to  proceed  further  without  an  explanation. 

"It  is  the  music  !"  he  exclaimed,  sadly  turning 
his  head  the  other  w^ay. 

*'  Ah  !'*  she  exclaimed  without  further  comment, 
becoming  exceedingly  pale.    . 

Vittoria  had  to  suppose,  with  her  cruel  and 
devouring  internal  suspicion,  that  the  music 
brought  recollections  of  a  former  time  to  her  hus- 
band, of  other  things,  of  another  person.  Her 
fine  and  tender  mouth  closed  as  if  sealed  hermet- 
ically, and  she  assumed  her  aspect  of  a  flower  dead 
and  closed. 

Meanwhile  outside  the  view  spread  itself  beneath 
the  caressing  April  sun.  The  bright,  fresh,  blue 
vault  of  the  sky  arched  itself  from  the  Via  Flaminia 
to  the  grandiose  Piazza  del  Popolo,  and  far  away 
the  cypresses  of  Monte  Mario,  from  amidst  the 
green  of  the  Farnesina,  bathed  by  the  twisting 
Tiber,  hurled  themselves  against  the  almost  quiver- 
ing firmament,  while  on  the  left  rose  the  Pincio, 
with  its  groves  already  in  leaf.  The  large  foun- 
tain in  the  middle  of  the  Piazza  del  Popolo  raised 
its  monumental  marbles  which  time  had  obscured 


THE    PARDON  93 

nobly,  while  its  waters  fell  back  into  the  basin  in 
soft  spray.  In  the  background  the  three  roads 
which  lead  to  Rome  spread  out  like  a  fan;  the 
Corso  in  the  middle,  the  via  di  Ripetta  on  the 
right,  and  on  the  left  the  via  del  Babuino. 

The  morning  joy  was  so  complete  that  the 
Piazza  del  Popolo  and  adjoining  streets,  often  so 
austerely  solitary,  now  showed  a  great  animation 
with  the  movement  of  passers-by  and  carriages. 

Even  the  newly-married  couple,  once  outside  the 
large  and  glacial  temple  and  in  the  fresh  air  be- 
neath the  enchanting  vault  of  the  sky,  felt  a  flutter 
of  exaltation  raise  their  hearts,  on  which  life  had 
already  left  its  traces.  That  atmosphere  of  gaiety, 
so  like  their  flourishing  youth,  encompassed  them, 
and  the  usual  magnificent  allurement  of  the' spring 
drew  them  and  merged  them  in  its  gentle  and 
fervid  train.  Every  recollection  vanished,  all  the 
wounds  seemed  healed,  and  together  they  began 
to  believe  again  in  life.  Blushing  Vittoria  heard 
the  people's  exclamation  of  admiration  as  she  got 
into  the  carriage :  her  veil  thrown  back  disclosed 
the  white  forehead,  and  a  soft  smile  appeared  on 
her  lips. 

To  the  tender  pity  which  Marco  Fiore  felt  for 
the  comely  girl  he  had  married  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  ago,  by  the  rite  which  no  human  hand  can 
dissolve  till  death,  there  was  united  a  kind  of  feel- 
ing of  masculine  pride,  a  feeling  as  it  were  of  a 
great  mission   to  be  accomplished   worthy  of  an 


94  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

upright  and  affectionate  heart.  Their  two  hands 
joined  and  their  glances  spoke  of  a  common  hope, 
of  a  common  faith. 

The  carriage  entered  the  Corso  and  the  ample 
and  exultant  view  vanished,  and  only  a  little 
narrow  strip  of  cloud  appeared  between  the  big 
austere  palaces.  They  drove  towards  the  Palazzo 
Casalta  in  via  della  Botteghe  Oscure.  They  were 
silent  now\  The  two  hands  little  by  little  disen- 
tangled themselves  naturally  from  their  pressure, 
nor  did  they  rejoin.  Both  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow. As  if  she  were  speaking  in  a  dream,  Vittoria 
asked — 

**  That  last  wedding  music  displeased  you, 
Marco?*' 

He  trembled,  and  replied  suddenly,  **  Yes." 

*' Will  you  tell  me  why,  Marco?" 

**  Why  do  you  ask  so  many  things,  little  Vit- 
toria?" he  said  sweetly;  *'  it  doesn't  do  to  ask  so 
much." 

"Tell  me,  tell  me,  Marco,"  she  insisted 
anxiously. 

**  You  are  like  Elsa,"  he  murmured,  shaking 
his  head. 

*'  What  did  Elsa  do,  Marco?  She  loved  Lohen- 
grin passionately." 

"  Yes,  little  Vittoria,  passionately.  But  she  was 
not  content  with  loving  him  without  asking  any- 
thing more.     She  wanted  to  know,'' 

**  Ah  !"  she  exclaimed,  growing  pale. 


THE    PARDON  95 

**  Instead  of  loving  she  wanted  to  know  who 
her  spouse  was." 

"Wasn't  she  right,  perhaps?"  said  Vittoria, 
trembling  a  little. 

**  She  was  wrong,"  replied  Marco  gravely;  '*  she 
had  to  love — that  was  all — blindly  and  humbly. 
Wherefore  Elsa's  imperfect  and  incomplete  love 
led  her  to  deception,  to  betrayal,  and  to 
abandonment." 

Vittoria  bit  her  little  lip  silently,  as  if  to  restrain 
a  secret  sigh. 

*'  Haven't  you  ever  heard  Lohengrin,  little 
Vittoria?"  murmured  Marco,  as  if  speaking  to 
an  imaginary  being;  "  at  a  certain^ point,  in  the 
nuptial  chamber,  near  his  loving  and  faithful  wife, 
the  valiant  knight  discovers  the  ambuscade  of 
which  Elsa  is  herself  an  accomplice.  Have  you 
never  heard,  Vittoria,  Lohengrin's  lament,  de- 
ceived and  betrayed  an  hour  after  the  marriage? 
His  dumb  cry  of  delusion  and  bitterness?  The 
dream  of  love  was  over  and  had  vanished.  Vit- 
toria, I  never  could  hear  that  cry  without  feeling 
my  heart  break." 

'*  That  is  why,  Marco,  you  suffered  when  that 
music  accompanied  us  from  the  church?" 

**That  is  why,  Vittoria." 

**  But  why  was  that  wedding  march  played?  It 
is  a  funeral  march,  Marco.  Why  did  they  play 
it?"  she  askexl  convulsively,  bending  over  him. 

'*  I  don't  know,"  he  replied  desolately. 


II 

After  descending  from  the  carriage  in  the 
noisy  station  among  the  crowd  which  the  train 
from  Florence  was  pouring  forth,  Donna  Maria 
hesitated  a  moment,  and  behind  her  soft  black 
veil  her  eyes  seemed  to  be  looking  for  some  one. 
Her  maid,  carrying  shawls  and  parcels,  stood  a 
few  steps  away  from  her.  Discovering  no  one 
she  made  a  resolute  movement  and  opened  a  w-ay 
for  herself  through  the  crowed,  when  a  gentleman 
approached  and  greeted  her,  taking  her  hand  to 
kiss  it. 

"Welcome,  Donna  Maria.*' 

'*  Good-evening,  Provana,**  she  replied  with 
cold  courtesy,  *'what  are  you  doing  here?" 

"  I  have  come  to  meet  you,"  he  said,  surprised 
at  the  question. 

*'  Very  kind  of  you,"  she  replied,  thanking  him 
with  a  bow. 

She  approached  the  exit  with  him,  followed  at 
two  or  three  steps'  distance  by  her  maid.  A  ser- 
vant of  Casa  Guasco  was  there;  he  touched  his 
hat,  and  inquired  after  the  luggage.  Maria  drily 
directed  the  man  to  her  maid. 

"  The  carriage  is  here  too,"  said  Gianni  fussily. 
96 


THE    PARDON  97 

*'You  are  very  kind,"  she  said. 

The  great  electric  lights  illuminated  the  arrival 
place,  and  Gianni  looked  at  her  intently.  The 
morbid  and  slightly  proud  grace  of  Maria's  face 
seemed  unchanged  with  its  faintly  rosy  com- 
plexion, the  large  eyes  were  closed  purposely  as 
if  absorbed  in  their  interior  life.  Her  undulating 
figure,  even  in  its  simple  travelling  costume,  pre- 
served its  fascination.  Perhaps  her  glance  was 
less  vivid,  and  the  lines  of  her  face  were  less  de- 
cided, nor  was  the  expression  of  the  proud  mouth 
quite  so  firm,  little  changes  due  to  fatigue,  which 
in  fact  gave  her  an  air  of  languor,  new  and 
strangely  attractive  in  her. 

She  did  not  speak  to  Gianni  as  he  accompanied 
her  to  the  coupe,  a  new  and  elegant  carriage.  Be- 
fore entering  she  hesitated  slightly,  and  turned 
to  take  leave  of  him.  He  bowed  politely,  and 
asked — 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  accompany  you  home?'* 

**  Do  you  think  it  necessary?" 

"  To  accomplish  my  duty,"  he  affirmed,  with 
veiled  insistence. 

*'  If  it  is  a  duty,  yes,"  she  consented  coldly. 

The  door  was  closed  on  them.  By  the  bright- 
ness of  the  electric  light  Maria  discovered  a  bunch 
of  flowers  in  the  pocket  in  front  of  her. 

*'  Are  they  yours?"  she  asked. 

**  No,  I  wouldn't  allow  myself,"  he  murmured, 
wdth  a  smile.  **  They  are  Emilio's;  he  has 
7 


99  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

thought  of  everything.     For  several  days  he  has 
busied  himself  with  nothing  but  your  reti/rn.'* 

''  You  busy  yourselves  together,  it  seems  to 
me,"  she  said,  with  a  fleeting  tinge  of  irony.         « 

*'  If  you  like.  Emilio  considers  me,  perhaps 
unworthily,  one  of  the  authors  of  your  return.  Is 
he  wrong?'* 

"  He  is  wrong,'*  she  replied  precisely. 

A  silence  fell  between  them.  In  spite  of  his  wit 
and  scepticism  Gianni  Provana  always  felt  the 
distance  at  which  the  woman  held  him,  and  the 
confused  repugnance,  a  repugnance  sometimes 
cruelly  apparent,  with  w-hich  he  inspired  her. 

**  Because  of  this  false  idea  of  his,  then," 
resumed  Provana,  '*  Emilio  wished  to  organise 
your  return  with  me." 

*'  And  he  sent  you  to  the  station  ?" 

"  He  sent  me  to  the  station." 

*'  It  was  useless." 

**  Ought  you  to  have  found  no  one?" 

**  I  ought  to  have  found  Emilio,"  she  said  in  a 
low  voice,  as  if  to  herself.  There  was  a  heavy 
moment  of  silence. 

"  Such  a  meeting,  Donna  Maria,  in  public  after 
what  has  happened!  You  understand?"  he  mur- 
m.ured. 

**  I  understand;  be  silent,"  she  rejoined,  with 
a  decisive  gesture. 

For  some  time  the  carriage  proceeded  on  its  way 
without  either  speaking.     Perhaps,  in  spite  of  his 


THE    PARDON  99 

tenacity,  hidden  under  an  appearance  of  gracious- 
ness  and  indifference,  the  man  repented  of  having 
been  involved  in  that  histoire  intimey  and  perhaps 
the  perverse  conception  he  had  of  life  counselled 
him  to  be  quiet,  to  be  patient,  and  to  wait.  It 
was  Maria  who  resumed  the  conversation,  as  the 
carriage  was  drawing  near  its  destination. 

"  Is  Emilio  in  Rome?" 

'*Yes." 

**  Is  he  at  home?" 

'*  He  is  waiting  for  you." 

'*  You  will  leave  me  at  the  house  door,  Pro- 
vana,"  she  added  coldly. 

*'  Of  course,  there  is  no  necessity  to  order  me 
to  do  it.     I  will  come  to-morrow  to  greet  you." 

'*No,  Provana." 

**  Within  a  few  days,  then." 

**  The  latest  possible,  and  better  never." 

**  Never  is  a  big  word.  Donna  Maria.  Why 
don't  you  want  to  see  me  any  more?" 

*'  Do  you  believe  that  I  am  what  I  am,  and  what 
I  shall  always  be,  a  creature  of  truth  ?  Do  you 
believe  that  I  have  come  this  evening  to  Emilio 
Guasco's  home,  to  my  husband's  home,  to  accom- 
plish a  solemn  act  ?  Why,  then,  do  you-  wish  me 
to  become  a  creature  of  lies?  Why,  then,  do  you 
wish  to  make  grotesque,  doubly  grotesque,  my 
act  of  humility,  and  my  husband's  act  of  pardon." 

"  But  why  ever  do  you  suppose  that.  Donna 
Maria?"  he  asked,  a  little  confused. 


100  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  I  suppose  what  is,  Provana;  that  it  may 
please  you  hugely  to  be  the  lover  of  your  best 
friend's  wife,  that  it  may  please  you  to  preserve 
a  friendship  with  the  husband  and  love  the  wife; 
that  you  have  a  horror  of  scandal,  of  noise,  of 
open  and  undeniable  betrayal ;  that  the  miserable 
and  nauseating  betrayal  of  every  day  pleases  you 
wnth  all  its  lies  and  transactions ;  that  for  a  long 
time  you  have  known  that  you  wished  to  do  this 
to  Emilio  and  to  me;  that  no  one  upset  your  plan 
more  than  he  whom  you  know — and  in  fact  that 
you  have  begun  to  hope  again  in  its  success." 

*'  Every  one  is  allowed  to  hope  for  what  he 
ardently  desires,"   replied  Gianni  ambiguously. 

*'  I  shall  only  have  had  one  love  in  my  life," 
she  said,  in  a  clear  low  voice,  "and  only  one 
lover.     Good-bye,   Provana." 

The  carriage  had  driven  round  the  circle  of  the 
courtyard  of  the  Guasco  Palazzo,  in  via  de'Prefetti, 
and  stopped  before  the  peristyle.  Bowing  deeply 
Gianni  Provana  took  his  leave,  while  Maria,  pre- 
ceded by  the  servants,  mounted  the  stairs  very 
slowly.  ^  An  inexorable  agitation  pressed  deeply  on 
the  soul  of  the  woman  who,  after  the  intense  love 
rhapsody  in  which  she  had  thrown  all  that  was 
good  and  bad  in  her  existence  as  upon  a  pyre, 
was  retracing  her  steps  and  invoking  the  pardon 
of  him  whom  she  had  fatally  and  unjustly  injured. 
Ah,  she  would  never  have  returned  to  the  honest, 
faithful  man  unless  she  had  seen  the  magnificent 


THE    PARDON  loi 

pyre  of  her  passion  extinguished,  and  her  life 
rendered  mute  and  deserted  by  love  ! 

She  had  preferred  to  take  time  to  calm  her 
sorrow,  to  mature  in  her  conscience  the  act  of  re- 
mission and  humility  she  had  come  to  accomplish. 
She  had  passed  five  months  away  from  Rome  in 
a  villa  near  Florence,  without  asking  or  giving 
news,  and  her  heart  and  soul  were  immersed  in 
a  great  contrition.  They  had  felt  all  the  weight  of 
the  evil  done  to  others,  of  suffering  inflicted  un- 
deservedly on  the  innocent.  The  sublime  idea  of 
reparation  had  become  in  Maria  so  lofty  and 
irrevocable  that,  at  the  end  of  her  exile,  she  was 
asking  to  touch  the  limit  of  every  personal  sacri- 
fice, if  only  to  console,  heal,  and  make  Emilio 
Guasco  happy  again. 

In  the  solitude  which  she  had  imposed  on  her- 
self, in  which  she  had  prepared  herself  for  the 
great  work — the  greatest  and  most  beautiful  work 
the  human  soul  can  accomplish — of  giving  comfort 
and  happiness,  the  figure  of  Emilio  Guasco,  by 
his  sufferings  and  the  dignity  with  which  he  had 
borne  them,  and  the  magnanimity  with  which  he 
had  recalled  her  to  himself,  stretching  his  arms 
to  her  in  pardon,  seemed  greater  than  i't  had  ever 
been.  From  the  distance  Emilio's  love  for  her 
seemed  immeasurable,  since  it  had  resisted  betrayal, 
abandonment,  and  dishonour.  It  seemed  a  differ- 
ent love  to  her — superior,  immovable,  eternal,  a 
love   which   she   had   never  experienced,   and,    in 


I02  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

fact,  she  felt  herself  unworthy  of  having  inspire'd. 
Contrition  was  breaking,  pulverising,  volatilising 
Maria  Guasco's  pride,  that  secret  strength,  sin, 
and  virtue  of  her  life. 

Slowly  she  reached  the  head  of  the  stairs,  her 
heart  beating  more  quickly,  as  she  noticed  again 
the  well-known  place  where  she  had  lived,  where 
again  she  had  to  see  the  well-known  face  and  hear 
again  the  familiar  voice.  She  realised  that  she 
was  holding  in  her  convulsed  hand  two  existences. 

Maria  had  no  other  feeling  as  she  placed  her 
feet  on  the  threshold. of  what  had  been  her  home, 
and  was  to  become  so  again,  except  that  of  the 
humility  of  the  repentant  sinner.  All  her  being 
was  humility.  She  w-as  begging  pardon  for  the 
sin  committed,  and  for  the  pardon  was  offering  in 
exchange  the  dedication  of  a  soul,  the  dedication 
of  a  life. 

In  the  large  ante-room,  w^ith  its  dark-carved 
panels,  the  two  servahts  left  their  mistress,  and 
retired  to  the  other  side  of  the  living  rooms. 
Once  alone  her  trembling  increased,  and  she 
seemed  to  be  falling.  Where,  then,  was  Emilio, 
her  husband  and  judge,  her  husband  and  her 
victim,  who  had  not  had  the  strength  to  meet  her 
at  the  station,  whom  at  any  rate  she  had.  expected 
to  find  at  the  threshold  ?  With  an  effort  of  will 
she  kept  her  step  firm,  and  crossed  the  drawing- 
room  and  the  little  drawing-room.  Both  rooms 
were   deserted,    and   so  was   her   bright  boudoir. 


THE    PARDON  103 

Where  was  Emilio?  A  singular  thought  crossed 
her  brain,  which  she  rejected  as  soon  as  she  had 
accepted  it,  as  she  perceived  him  through  the  open 
door  of  his  study,  standing  by  his  large  writing- 
table  holding  in  his  hand,  but  not  reading,  a 
newspaper.  The  room  was  less  illuminated  than 
the  others,  and  the  lamps  were  shaded  in  green, 
but  if  it  had  been  inundated  with  the  light  of  the 
sun  Maria  would  have  noticed  nothing,  so  veiled 
were  her  eyes  and  scattered  her  senses.  However, 
she  advanced  towards  him,  where  he  was  waiting 
silently  for  the  proper  word  from  her.  In  spite 
of  her  horrible  trembling,  she  turned  to  him  con- 
tritely with  the  sincerest  repentance;  bending  her 
head  and  stretching  out  her  hands  to  him.  With 
a  very  white  face,  she  exclaimed  in  unspeakable 
humility — 

"  Emilio,  I  ask  your  pardon." 

If  her  knees  were  not  bent  nor  the  body  pros- 
trated, the  soul  was  prostrated,  waiting  for  the  com- 
plete pardon,  for  the  word  that  absolves,  the  act 
that  cancels,  the  gesture  that  redeems.  The 
woman  listened  humbly  without  looking  at  him. 

'*  I  pardon  you,  Maria,"  said  the  man. 

Maria  raised  her  eyes  and  fixed  them  ^n  Emilio 
Guasco,  and  waited;  but  he  did  not  look  at  her, 
neither  did  he  move.  An  immense  silence,  an 
enormous  distance  seemed  to  have  come  between 
the  man  and  the  woman. 


Ill 

After  having  helped  her  into  a  soft  white  silk 
robe  and  laced  her  shoes,  Chiara,  the  faithful 
maid,  looked  at  Donna  Maria,  expecting  orders. 
It  was  late,  past  eleven,  and  as  they  had  been 
travelling  weariness  was  overwhelming  both.  After 
thinking  for  an  instant,  Maria  said  to  Chiara — 

'*  Braid  my  hair." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Chiara,  with  the  slightest 
movement  of  surprise.  Chiara  had  forgotten  the 
old  custom.  Formerly,  when  she  had  entered  the 
service  of  Donna  Maria  Guasco  Simonetti  about 
six  months  after  her  marriage,  every  evening, 
whether  her  young  mistress  went  out  or  not,  some- 
times even  after  a  theatre  or  a  ball,  Chiara  had  to 
undo  the  great  thick  mass  of  chestnut  hair,  taking 
out  the  combs  and  pins,  and  having  combed  the 
magnificent  tresses  with  an  almost  caressing  move- 
ment of  the  brush  and  comb,  she  had  to  gather 
them  into  a  long  plait,  tieing  it  at  the  end  with 
a  white  silk  ribbon,  while  a  similar  ribbon  went 
round  the  head  in  a  bow  on  top.  This  gave  Maria 
an  exceedingly  young,  almost  girlish  appearance. 

When    Maria   had   fled   from    Casa   Guasco   with 

104 


THE    PARDON  105 

Marco  Fiore,  and  had  cloistered  her  life  in  the  little 
villa  at  Santa  Maria  Maggiore,  where  Chiara 
followed  her  in  blind  devotion  and  obedience,  the 
tresses  were  no  longer  unloosed  by  the  girl's  expert 
hands  and  bound  in  a  plait.  Such  a  fashion  per- 
haps no  longer  pleased  Donna  Maria,  as  she  re- 
membered the  house  she  had  left,  or  more  likely 
it  did  not  please  her  lover,  whose  delight  it  was  to 
plunge  his  fingers  and  face  in  the  soft  and  odorous 
waves  of  her  hair. 

I     **  Make  me  a  plait  like  you  used  to,   Chiara,*' 
Maria  murmured,  with  her  eyes  closed. 

With  a  slight  tinkle  the  small  combs  and  pins 
fell  on  the  crystal-covered  toilette  table,  and  that 
well-known  sound  seemed  to  strike  the  two  women 
as  if  the  old  life  had  begun  again.  When  she  had 
finished,  Chiara  searched  for  a  moment  among  the 
silver-topped  vials  and  ivory  boxes. 

"  Here  is  the  ribbon,"  she  said  softly. 

The  white  ribbon  was  there,  as  if  Chiara  had  left 
it  the  evening  before  and  four  years  had  not  passed, 
or  as  if  a  mysterious  hand  had  placed  the  things 
there  as  in  former  times,  so  that  the  singular  resur- 
rection should  seem  like  a  continuation  of  life. 
In  every  particular  Maria  found  this  secret  care 
that  every  line  and  tint  should  produce  the  quiet 
and  persuasive  impression  of  an  existence  which 
had  had  no  interruptions,  which  was  pursuing  its 
development  without  a  break,  so  that  to-day  was 
like  yesterday,  like  a  year  ago  or  seven  years  ago, 


io6  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

and  to-morrow  and  the  day  after  like  yesterday 
and  to-day.  Not  only  had  none  of  the  old  furni- 
ture been  moved,  not  only  had  tlie  carpete,  por- 
tieres and  curtains  preserved  their  usual  aspect, 
but  they  had  not  even  grown  old.  Not  only  did 
the  hundred  well-known  and  familiar  objects 
attract  the  glance  with  the  sympathetic  fidelity 
of  inanimate  objects,  but  they  gave  more  than  ever 
the  sense  of  unelapsed  time,  of  objects  viewed  no 
later  than  yesterday,  and  to  day  found  again 
sympathetically  in  their  place.  Maria  found  again 
a  little  antique  clock  on  a  small  table  near  her  bed, 
with  the  hours  marked  in  blue  figures,  which  she 
had  left  on  her  departure  and  missed.  It  was 
ticking  lightly  and  pointed  to  half-past  eleven,  as 
if  it  had  never  ceased  to  go  in  all  the  time  that 
had  passed.  In  some  vases  there  were  large 
bunches  of  grass,  and  green  leaves  without  a 
flower,  such  as  she  always  liked  to  have  in  her  bed- 
room, seeking  out  the  grasses  most  peculiar  and 
delicate  in  form,  and  the  leaves  the  most  varied 
in  colour  and  marking.  Formerly  she  did  not  care 
for  the  perfume  of  flowers  in  her  bedroom,  fear- 
ing its  insidious  poison ;  but  the  green  of  gardens 
and  meadows,  of  fields  and  mountains,  the  healthy 
green  of  leaves  and  grasses  pleased  her  simple 
open  spirit,  her  sane  and  beautiful  youth.  The 
ink  was  fresh  in  the  pen  on  the  writing-table,  just 
as  if  her  last  letter  had  been  written  an  instant  ago, 
v'  id  near  by  was  a  book  in  a  dark-green  binding, 


THE    PARDON  107 

a  book  unfinished  with  the  marker  in  its  place — 
Salammbo,  of  Gustave  Flaubert. 

Thus  Donna  Maria  had  the  feeling  of  the  aboli- 
tion of  time. 

*' Does  Your  Excellency  want  anything  else?" 
asked  Chiara,  mechanically  uttering  the  w^ords  of 
formerly  which  had  returned  to  her  memory. 

"Nothing,  Chiara;  good-night." 

In  greeting  her  maid  Maria's  voice  trembled  with 
tenderness.  For  seven  years  she  had  given  all  her 
services  to  Maria,  and  little  by  little  had  become 
a  friendly  and  devoted  shadow,  almost  as  if  she 
no  longer  existed  for  her  own  personality.  In 
every  peculiar  contingency  of  these  seven  years, 
without  speaking,  without  murmuring,  even  with- 
out judging  or  thinking,  Chiara  had  continued  to 
serve  and  obey — the  shadow  of  Donna  Maria. 

On  this  day,  profound  with  diverse  and  contrary 
sentiments,  she  returned  with  her  mistress  silently 
and  humbly,  like  her  with  a  contrite  heart,  to  the 
house  from  which  they  had  fled  together,  from 
which  they  had  been  absent  so  long,  and  just  as 
Donna  Maria  strangely  began  her  life  again  where 
it  had  been  interrupted,  and  time  and  her  deeds  had 
seemed  abolished,  so  the  poor  little  shadow  of  a 
Chiara  returned  to  that  which  had  been  formerly, 
naturally  and  tacitly  like  a  faithful  shadow. 


IV 

When  Chiara  had  disappeared  and  Donna 
Maria's  eyes  had  followed  her  with  a  little  thrill 
of  affection  and  gratitude  for  so  much  altruism 
in  a  service  requiring  such  tact,  she  settled  herself 
in  an  arm-chair  as  of  yore.  She  resumed  the  novel 
on  Carthage  where  she  had  left  off,  removed  the 
marker  methodically  from  the  open  page,  and 
fixed  her  eyes  on  the  printed  letters,  waiting  for 
Emilio,  her  husband,  to  come  as  he  used  to. 

'*  He  will  come  now,"  thought  Maria,  as  her 
eyes  read  about  the  curious  refinements  of  the 
attiring  of  Salammbo,  as  she  sets  off  for  the  field 
of  the  rebels  to  seize  from  Matho  the  veil  of  Tanith, 
which  he  had  stolen. 

However,  her  reading  was  but  short.  There 
arose  in  her  soul  a  dull  agitation,  which  became 
stronger  there  where  for  a  moment  it  had  been 
lulled,  as  it  seemed  to  her  that  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, and  that  her  life  had  had  no  break  in  its 
continuity;  so  much  so  that  she  awoke  from  the 
calm  and  peaceful  surroundings,  speaking  of  an 
uninterrupted  serenity  from  which  she  had  obtained 
a  lingering  caress  of  contentment,  as  in  a  dream, 

io8 


THE    PARDON  109 

only  to  be  confronted  with  a  reality.  How  could 
she  read?  Salammho  slid  from  her  knees  to  the 
carpet.  She  rose  to  her  feet,  crossed  the  large 
room,  approached  the  closed  door  and  listened  if 
Emilio  were  coming  towards  her,  as  formerly,  even 
if  differently  to  formerly  so  long  as  he  came  to  that 
room  which  had  been  theirs  for  years ;  that  she  may 
confront  his  eyes,  that  their  glances  may  unite 
,and  melt  together,  that  she  may  seize  his  hand 
and  clasp  it  with  hers,  that  she  may  remember  the 
gentle  way  he  used  to  open  his  arms  and  close  her 
tenderly  to  his  bosom. 

"  I  will  weep  on  his  bosom,"  she  said  to  her^ 
self,  "he  will  weep  with  me;  nothing  is  better 
than  weeping  when  w^e  have  to  pardon  and  forget, 
when  we  have  been  pardoned  and  are  invoking 
forgetfulness." 

However,  the  silence  in  Casa  Guasco  was 
supreme,  and  Donna  Maria  heard  no  step 
approaching.  The  boudoir,  which  preceded  her 
room,  was  in  half-darkness,  lit  by  a  single  lamp. 
On  the  other  side  was  her  husband's  study,  where 
they  had  met  an  hour  ago,  and  where  he  had 
remained  silent  without  following  her.  The  study 
door  was  closed.     No  noise  reached  from  there. 

**  He  is  working,  perhaps,"  she  thought.  Then 
suddenly  a  contradiction  arose.  *' Working?  At 
what?     At  this  hour?" 

Like  a  spectre  Maria  re-entered  her  room,  pray- 
ing for  calm  against  the  heavy  disturbance  which 


no  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

was  again  oppressing  her.  She  sat  at  her  desk, 
and  pressing  her  burning  forehead  in  her  cool 
hands,  endeavoured  to  subdue  herself,  to  conquer 
herself. 

Again  the  sentiment  of  humility,  with  which  she 
had  mortified  her  proud  heart  in  the  months  of 
solitude  and  repentance  which  she  had  passed  at 
Florence,  inundated  her  soul  with  pity,  with  affec- 
tion, and  wifh  loving  charity.  She  thought  of  the 
state  of  Emilio's  heart,  oil  that  day  on  ^\1iich  he 
had  accomplished  such  a  noble  and  tender  deed, 
pardoning  a  long  and  atrocious  offence,  in  which 
he  had  given  a  beautiful  proof  of  magnanimity, 
receiving  again  into  his  home  the  traitress,  the 
truant,  who  had  broken  her  sacred  promises  and 
'vows.  She  thought  of  how  he  must  have  suffered 
for  four  eternal  years  in  the  same  land,  in  the  same 
society,  having  no  comfort  of  any  kind,  having  no 
children  and  in  a  deserted  house,  and  of  how  he 
must  have  cursed  his  destiny  and  her  name. 

She  thought  of  what  the  pardon  he  had  offered 
her  must  have  cost  him  in  intense  moral  pain, 
and  in  powerful  moral  sacrifice,  w^hich  she  had 
only  accepted  when  it  was  convenient  for  her  to 
accept  it. 

Again,  the  figure  of  her  husband  opposed  to  her 
egoism,  opposed  to  her  love  folly,  opposed  to  the 
delirium  of  her  own  passion,  seemed  to  grow  large 
with  goodness,  and  she  felt  herself  mean  and  un- 
worthy before  him.    She  felt  the  need  of  seeing  him, 


THE    PARDON  in 

of  telling  him  of  her  gratitude  and  her  admiration, 
since  he  alone  possessed  every  virtue  and  energy 
of  well-doing,  while  she  was  a  fragile  and  fallen 
creature.  Thus  in  the  silence,  in  her  solitude,  she 
evoked  the  presence  of  her  husband.  She  invoked 
that  presence,  in  order  that  she  might  tell  him  how 
a  whole  life  of  devotion  would  compensate  for  his 
heroic  pardon. 

With  fixed  eyes  Maria  stood  at  the  door,  all 
ardour,  to  see  it  open  after  the  invocation.  Her 
contracted  face  spoke  of  a  heavy  anguish,  her 
sinuous  body  in  its  flowing  white  gown  was  alert 
and  rigid  with  waiting.  From  not  seeing  her  hus- 
band appear,  as  she  had  thought,  hoped,  and  de- 
sired, she  suffered  the  more  from  the  profound 
silence  of  the  house,  from  the  desert  which  the 
house  seemed  to  have  become,  from  that  mortal 
solitude,  but  especially  from  her  mortal  delusion. 
She  suffered  acutely.  And  it  was  intolerance  of 
such  torturing  waiting,  in  all  its  moments  of  re- 
pression, that  exasperated  her ;  she  wished  through 
her  imperious  will  to  force  the  destiny  of  that  long 
night  to  change. 

"  I  will  go  and  seek  him,"  she  said  to  herself. 
Once  having  decided  she  crossed  the  boudoir, 
reached  the  door  of  the  study,  where  she  supposed 
her  husband  was  closeted,  and  stooped  to  knock, 
even  to  open  it  violently.  But  her  raised  hand 
did  not  obey  the  movement  suggested  by  her  will. 
Quite  apart,  her  feverish  and  convulsed  brain  had 


112  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

inspired    her    with    a    shock,    with    an    immense 
fear. 

*'  Suppose  he  were  to  think.  .  .  .  Suppose  he 
were  to  think.  .  .  .'*  she  murmured  to  herself 
almost  deliriously. 

With  scarcely  perceptible  motion,  taking  every 
care  not  to  make  the  slightest  noise,  holding  her 
breath,  she  turned  back,  palpitating  and  trembling, 
yet  striving  to  restrain  the  palpitation  and  the 
trembling.     At  last  she  reached  her  room. 

Throwing  herself  on  the  bed  she  hid  her  face  in 
the  pillow,  even  stopping  her  mouth  with  it,  so 
that  her  sobs  of  bitterness,  of  fear,  and  terror  may 
not  be  heard.  Hers  was  all  the  shame  of  a  woman, 
who  suddenly  was  fated  to  tell  herself  the  hard  and 
cruel  truth  that  she  was  still  a  young  and  beautiful 
woman,  that  the  man  she  had  sought  was  still 
young  and  her  husband  as  well,  that,  although  the 
night  was  late,  he  who  loved  her  surely,  since  only 
he  who  loves  pardons,  had  not  come  to  look  for  her 
dressed  as  she  was  as  if  for  a  love  tryst;  but 
that  she  had  been  on  the  point  of  knocking  at  his 
door,  as  if  not  to  beg  merely  a  colloquy  of  sad- 
ness, of  repentance,  of  tears — not  a  colloquy  of  two 
bruised  souls  which  sought  spiritual  healing  for 
their  wounds — but  a  colloquy  of  love. 

**  No,  no,  no,"  she  kept  on  saying,  scarcely 
breathing,  with  her  mouth  against  the  fine  linen 
of  the  pillow,  fighting  against  the  unjust  accusa- 
tion of  her  conscience. 


THE    PARDON  113 

Unjust !  She  felt  herself  perfectly  pure  from 
such  a  transgression,  one  of  those  miserable  and 
mean  transgressions  of  the  inner  feminine  life 
which  lower  and  corrupt  a  woman  even  to  despis- 
ing herself.  Maria  had  only  had,  as  she  said, 
one  love  and  one  lover  only,  Marco  Fiore,  had 
only  lived  with  a  complete  and  intense  passion  for 
the  three  years  of  separation  from  Casa  Guasco, 
and  at  once,  but  for  ever,  her  heart  and  her  senses 
had  become  a  heap  of  ashes.  As  she  had  never 
wished  to  divide  her  soul  and  her  person  between 
Emilio  Guasco  and  Marco  Fiore  at  the  time  of 
the  height  of  her  amorous  delirium,  as  she  had 
forgotten  everything,  thrown  everything  aside  to 
belong  to  one  only,  and  had  burnt  in  a  single  flame 
all  that  life  had  conceded  her  of  love  for  Marco 
Fiore,  so  she,  on  returning  home,  to  live  again  with 
her  husband,  had  not  for  a  moment  thought  that 
her  person  ought  to  be  offered  and  given  again  as 
a  sensible  and  tangible  pledge,  as  a  holocaust  to 
the  new  conjugal  existence.  The  idea  that  her 
husband  hearing  her  knock  at  that  door,  hearing 
the  handle  creak,  and  seeing  her  appear  in  her  soft 
garment,  with  her  look  of  former  times,  late  at 
night  when  he  had  not  sought  her;  the 'idea  that 
he  might  have  believed  it  a  sensual  offering,  had 
aroused  in  her  a  tempestuous  crisis  of  shuddering, 
of  shame,  and  of  fear.  Ah,  how  the  lover  was 
finished,  was  dead  in  Maria  Guasco,  dead  with  a 
love  which  is  measured  and  short,  as  short  as 
8 


114  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

human  existence,  far,  far  shorter  than  all  short 
affairs  of  which  life  is  composed  and  in  which  man, 
alas,  desires  to  place  his  eternity  I  Love  was 
over,  the  lover  was  dead,  and  Maria  Guasco  felt 
every  glory  of  the  senses  extinguished  within  her.' 
If  her  soul  and  fibres  at  Venice  and  Rome  had 
proved  the  immeasurable  and  inconsolable  sorrow 
of  her  own  sentimental  and  sensual  impotence  for 
her  delightful  lover,  never  more  could  she  have, 
love  and  a  lover — not  even  her  husband,  Emilio 
Guasco.  I 

"  God  has  nullified  and  calmed  me,"  she 
thought,  soothing  the  anguish  of  her  spirit  little 
by  little.  "  I  can  be  faithful  to  the  past  since  I 
have  been  touched  by  death,  and  I  have  entered 
into  an  extreme  quiet."  \ 

But  the  man  who  was  breathing,  moving,  living 
his  unknown  but  powerful  life  in  a  room  not  far 
from  Maria's,  the  man  who  was  the  first  to  clasp 
her,  his  legitimate  spouse,  who  had  kept  for  her,' 
even  during  the  betrayal,  even  during  the  abandon* 
ment,  all  his  rights  as  a  husband;  the  man  of 
whom  Maria  knew  only  this  absolute  and  irrefut- 
able right,  was  he,  too,  finished  with  love  and  dead 
to  the  senses?  ] 

Had  the  years  which  were  passed  withdrawn  him 
from  the  inebriating  flatteries  of  passion  ?  Had 
they  withdrawn  him  from  all  the  burning  impulses 
of  life  in  its  fulness  ?  Was  he  dead  ?  And  if  he 
was  not,  if  he  was  alive,  of  what  was  he  thinking, 


THE    PARDON  115 

what  was  he  desiring,  what  was  he  wishing,  what 
could  he  wish  of  Maria  at  the  present  moment, 
now  so  late? 

"  He  used  to  love  me — he  did  love  me,"  she 
said  to  herself,  lifting  herself  from  her  pillowy 
absorbed  in  the  intensity  of  her  thoughts. 

And  even  now  Emilio  ought  to  love  her.  A 
feminine  instinct  told  the  thoughtful  woman  this; 
a  precise  and  clear  presentiment  repeated  it  to  her, 
and  every  act  in  daily  reality  had  confirmed  it  for 
her,  and  his  very  magnanimity  bore  testimony  to 
it. 

"Only  he  loves  who  pardons,**  she  thought, 
in  a  secret  torture  which  kept  penetrating  her 
spirit.  The  singular  torture,  that  is,  of  all  those 
who  do  not  love,  who  are  unable  to  love,  who  could 
break  their  hearts,  but  who  could  not  place  love 
there,  and  who,  instead,  are  loved  with  tenderness 
and  enthusiasm ;  the  torture,  that  is,  which  life 
inflicts  on  thousands  and  thousands  of  miserable 
men  and  women,  inept  to  love,  who  must  endure 
the  love  of  another,  endure  it  coldly,  and  measure 
all  its  greatness  without  participating  in  it,  and, 
in  fact,  feel  all  its  weight,  all  its  annoyance,  and 
all  its  execration ! — an  ineffable  torture  indeed, 
which  up  to  a  certain  point  sent  a  rush  of  fear 
through  Marians  excited  and  sensible  fibres.  Ris- 
ing to  her  feet  and  gazing  with  scared  eyes  at  the 
door,  she  feared  lest  Emilio  should  appear  there, 
should  come  to  her  enamoured  as  of  yore,  even 


ii6  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

more  enamoured,  and  burning  with  precipitous 
desire.  Maria  in  all  that  spiritual  fever  which 
flowed  through  her  acutest  feelings,  her  sharpest 
sensations,  retired  to  the  door  of  her  room  and 
wrung  her  hands  in  desperation,  not  knowing  where 
to  fly  from  such  a  danger.  And  just  as  she  had 
evoked  and  invoked  that  presence  of  a  good  and 
honourable  man  which  she  had  rendered  so  un- 
happy, that  presence  from  which  she  had  desired 
to  hear  the  voice  repeat  to  her  the  words  of  pardon, 
to  let  herself  pronounce  afresh  those  words  of 
humility  and  contrition,  so  that  presence — not  one 
of  a  brother,  not  one  of  a  friend,  not  of  a  suffering 
soul  to  be  consoled  and  healed — that  presence  of  a 
man,  of  a  husband,  strong  in  his  love,  strong  in 
his  instincts,  strong  in  his  right,  seemed  to  her 
an  abyss  of  abjection,  of  perdition,  into  which  she 
would  have  fallen  with  all  her  pride  and  all  her 
womanly  dignity. 

**What  shall  I  do;  whatever  shall  I  do?'*  she 
exclaimed,  as  if  invoking  succour. 

But  the  silence  of  Casa  Guasco  was  so  profound 
and  absolute  !  Conquering  her  terror,  Maria  re- 
crossed  the  room  and  mechanically,  with  the  rigid 
movements  of  one  who  obeys  her  will  rather  than 
dispute  with  it,  she  left  the  boudoir  and  turned 
the  knob  of  the  electric  light.  The  shadow  in- 
creased in  the  brightly  lit  room,  and  all  fell  into 
obscurity.  Entering  her  own  room  she  closed  the 
door   without   making   any    noise,    but   dared   not 


THE    PARDON  117 

turn  the  key.  Clothed  as  she  was,  leaving  the 
lamp  lit,  she  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  command- 
ing all  her  exhausted  forces  to  arouse  her,  all  her 
tired  fibres  not  to  abandon  her,  so  much  did  she 
fear  to  fall  asleep  since  some  one  could  enter  her 
room,  since  she  had  not  had  the  courage  to  shut 
herself  in. 

Two  or  three  times,  in  the  torpor  by  which  her 
mind  and  limbs  were  conquered,  she  tossed  about 
and  then  sat  up  in  bed,  only  to  fall  again  without 
having  heard  or  seen  anything.  Then  sl  deep 
sleep  fell  upon  her. 


On  entering  the  room  at  the  usual  hour,  Chiara 
found  her  mistress  asleep  and  dressed  on  the  bed 
with  the  electric  light  on,  while  outside  the  sun 
was  high.  She  turned  out  the  light  quietly,  half 
opened  the  shutters,  and  re-arranged  the  scattered 
things,  knowing  that  her  mistress  would  be  awak- 
ened. Turning  round  Chiara  saw  that  Maria*s 
eyes  were  open  and  that  she  was  very  pale;  she 
wished  her  good-morning,  and  received  a  feeble 
reply.  Maria  closed  her  eyes  again  and  buried 
her  head  in  the  pillow,  as  if  she  had  need  of  escap- 
ing the  spectacle  of  the  living  things  around  her. 
A  torpor  held  her  on  the  rumpled  bed,  a  desire  to 
know,  to  hear,  to  see  nothing.  The  young  maid 
entered  and  left  two  or  three  times  with  her 
rhythmical  and  noiseless  step,  till  at  last  Maria 
raised  her  head,  and  asked — 

"Is  it  late?" 

''Almost  nine.     Shall  I  prepare  the  bath?" 

**  Later  on,"  she  replied  in  a  weak  voice. 

Chiara  looked  at  her  with  such  tender  pity  in 

her  eyes  that  Maria  gave  her  a  reassuring  nod. 

**  It  is  nothing.     I  am  all  right."    And  at  thie 
ii8 


THE    PARDON  119 

same  time  she  made  a  questioning  movement 
which  the  loving  soul  understood — 

"  The  master  has  gone  out." 

**  Gone  out;  where?" 

"  On  business  to  Velletri.  He  returns  this 
evening." 

'•When  did  he  go?" 

"  This  morning  at  seven.  Gaspare,  the  valet, 
called  him  very  early." 

*' But  where  did  he  sleep?"  asked  Maria,  after 
a  little  hesitation. 

"In  his  new  room,  Excellency." 

"His  new  room  ?" 

"Over  there,  behind  the  billiard-room." 

There  was  a  silence  between  the  two  women. 

"  How  long  has  your  master  occupied  this 
room?" 

"  For  some  time,"  said  the  girl,  lowering  her 
eyes. 

"  Tell  me  how  long,  Chiara,"  insisted  Maria. 

"  Since  Your  Excellency  left." 

"Ah!"  replied  Donna  Maria  without  further 
observation,  letting  her  head  fall  on  the  pillow. 
Chiara  stood  waiting  for  orders. 

"  Are  there  any  letters  for  me?"  resumed  Maria 
in  a  feeble  voice. 

"No,  Excellency." 

"  Has  your  master  left  a  note  for  me?" 

"Nothing,  Excellency.  It  seems,  though,  that 
he  has  been  awake  all  the  night." 


120  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

*' Who  told  you  that?" 

**  Gaspare.'* 

**Ahr' 

Not  another  word  passed  between  the  two 
women. 

Beginning  her  first  day  after  the  pardon,  Maria 
read  in  her  mind  these  clear  and  indelible  words  : 
"  He  has  pardoned  me,  but  he  avoids  me;  he 
has  pardoned  me,  but  he  hates  me;  he  has  par- 
doned me,  but  he  despises  me."  And  all  sense  of 
life  was  lost  within  her. 


VI 


ViTTORiA  FiORE  was  alonc  in  her  room  at  the 
Hotel  de  la  Paix,  dressed  ready  to  go  out.  She 
went  to  and  fro  from  the  balcony  to  the  door,  wait- 
ing for  her  husband  who  was  nearly  an  hour  late, 
and  every  time  she  withdrew  from  the  balcony 
overlooking  the  white  Lungarno  and  the  river,  and 
went  towards  the  door  to  peep  into  the  corridor,  to 
see  if  Marco  were  coming,  a  sorrowful  impatience 
contracted  her  youthful  figure.  Passing  before  a 
large  mirror,  two  or  three  times  she  threw  a  rapid 
glance  at  herself,  then  shook  her  head  sadly.  On 
the  face  of  the  newly  made  bride  there  was  not 
shining  that  smile  of  gentle  delight,  of  mutual 
love  which  trusts  in  a  long  future  of  serene  joy. 
She  was  thoughtful,  agitated,  and  sometimes  com- 
pletely tormented,  as  if  her  inmost  soul  could  find 
no  peace. 

But  Marco  did  not  return.  Where  was  he  then  ? 
For  an  instant  the  spasm  of  impatience  was  so 
strong  that  her  pale  face  became  livid,  and  she 
placed  her  hand  to  her  heart,  as  if  she  felt  it  stop- 
ping. A  step  sounded  in  the  corridor.  In  an 
instant  the  lines  of  her  face  composed  themselves, 

121 


122  AFTER   THE   PARDON 

a  light  wave  of  blood  mounted  to  her  cheeks.  The 
expression  of  her  face  became  so  tranquil  and 
serene  that  it  would  have  deceived  the  most  expert 
eye.  To  complete  the  deception  she  pretended  to 
be  buttoning  her  glove. 

Marco  entered  with  a  great  bunch  of  white  lilies 
and  red  velvety  roses,  which  shed  their  delicate 
fragrance  in  the  room. 

**  I  had  to  wait  a  little,  Vittoria,"  he  said;  **  but 
in  compensation  I  have  brought  you  these  flowers.'* 

**  I  have  waited  a  little,  but  I  didn't  notice  it," 
she  replied  untruthfully. 

**  I  had  something  to  do,"  he  added  vaguely, 
without  offering  further  information;  "don't  you 
like  the  flowers?" 

**  Yes,  I  like  them,"  she  replied  quickly,  with- 
out any  enthusiasm.  ''  Thank  you,  Marco,  they 
are  beautiful  flowers."  And  she  immersed  her 
face  in  them. 

He  had  thrown  himself  into  a  chair  as  if  tired 
from  a  long  walk  or  fastidiousness,  as  if  he  had 
forgotten  that  he  had  come  to  take  her  out.  Vittoria 
herself,  who  had  remained  standing  near  the  table, 
where  she  had  placed  the  flowers,  now  sat  down 
and  placed  her  purse,  and  parasol  there. 

"  What  magnificent  flowers  Florence  has," 
added  Marco,  with  an  abstracted  smile,  ''every 
time  I  return  here  I  am  seized  with  a  madness  to 
have  such  a  lot  of  them,  in  fact,  all  if  it  were 
possible  in  my  arms  and  my  room." 


THE    PARDON  123 

**  You  have  been  several  times  to  Florence?*'  she 
asked  coldly,  almost  imperiously. 

"Yes,'*  he  replied,  without  heeding  either  the 
question  or  its  tone;  ''not  all  understand  this 
country,  and  so  not  all  can  love  it.  It  is  a  country 
of  love  and  poesy,"  he  ended  in  saying,  almost 
to  himself,  with  a  far-away  expression  of  recol- 
lection. 

Silent  and  serene  Vittoria  seemed  to  have  heard 
nothing,  and,  as  Marco  was  not  getting  up  from 
his  seat,  nor  expressing  a  wish  to  go  out,  she 
drew  off  her  gloves  slowly,  stretched  them  one 
after  the  other,  and  placed  them  on  the  table  beside 
the  purse. and  the  parasol. 

**  You  have  never  seen  it  in  the  evening  and  at 
night,  Vittoria,  but  I  assure  you  it  is  a  dreamland. 
Shall  we  go  this  evening,  W'Ould  you  like  to?" 

**  We  will  go,"  she  replied  tranquilly,  slightly 
distractedly,  while  she  raised  her  long  white  hands 
to  draw  the  two  large  pearl-headed  pins  from  her 
hat. 

'*  We  must  go  if  the  evening  is  beautiful,"  he 
continued,  absorbed  in  his  plan.  *'  Is  there  a 
moon,  Vittoria?" 

**  Yes,  I  think  so,"  she  replied,  lifting  the 
flowers  of  her  hat  w^ith  her  white  fingers,  and  not 
appearing  to  give  much  attention  to  her  husband's 
discourse. 

**  Very  well,  if  there  is  a  moon,  and  it  rises  late, 
WT  must  go  to  the  Loggia  di  Orcagna.     Do  you 


124  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

remember  you  saw  the  Loggia  di  Orcagna  yester- 
day?" 

**  Yes,  I  saw  it  yesterday/*  she  replied,  folding 
her  white  veil  accurately. 

'*  At  that  hour  there  are  no  people  in  the  streets 
of  Florence,  and  it  is  a  city  recollected  and  a  little 
melancholy.  Then  we  must  sit  on  the  steps  of 
the  Loggia  di  Orcagna,  beneath  the  statue  of 
Judith,  holding  in  her  hand  the  head  of  Holo- 
fernes,  and  look  around  the  Piazza  della  Signoria, 
and  all  the  visions  come  to  him  who  knows  how 
to  dream." 

**  What  visions?  What  dreams?"  she  de- 
manded coldly,  playing  with  the  charms  on  her 
gold  chain. 

Marco  looked  at  her,  marvelling  a  little. 

"Do  you  never  dream,  little  Vittoria?"  he 
asked,  with  some  irony. 

**  Never,"  she  replied  drily. 

**  Not  even  of  me  when  I  am  not  there  ?"  and  the 
tone  became  still  more  ironical. 

"  When  you  are  not  there  I  wait  for  you;  that 
is  all,"  she  murmured,  without  further  observation. 

*'That  is  not  a  great  deal;  but  still  it  doesn't 
matter!"  and  he  broke  into  a  laugh. 

She  lowered  her  eyelids,  as  she  alw^ays  did  to 
hide  the  trouble  of  her  eyes,  and  closed  her  lips 
to  repress  her  words;  but  these  actions  w^ere  so 
imperceptible  that  the  man  hardly  ever  noticed 
them. 


THE    PARDON  125 

**  Aren*t  you  going  to  put  your  flowers  in  water  ? 
don't  you  like  them?'* 

'*  I  am  just  going  to,"  she  replied. 

Then  very  slowly  she  took  the  flowers  and  untied 
them,  almost  without  looking  at  them,  separating 
them  on  the  table  with  a  mechanical  working  of 
the  hands. 

"It  is  eleven,"  he  said,  looking  at  his  watch. 
"  I  should  like  to  lie  down  a  little;  I  am  so  tired. 
It  is  the  spring  perhaps." 

*'  Go  and  sleep;  you  have  an  hour  and  a  half 
before  lunch,"- Vittoria  replied,  without  turning. 

**  Aren't  you  tired?" 

*'  No,  I  haven't  been  out." 

*'  That  is  true.     Doesn't  the  spring  tire  you?" 

'*No." 

'*  I  feel  exhausted,"  he  added  vaguely,  **  I  am 
going  to  sleep.     What  are  you  going  to  do?'* 

'*  I  am  going  to  write  home." 

*'Brava!  Write  for  me  too;  tell  them  every- 
thing, little  Vittoria." 

"  You  haven't  written  to  any  one,  Marco,"  she 
observed. 

**  I  am  a  poor  letter-writer,  little  Vittoria." 

**  Have  you  always  been?"  and  the  question 
seemed  conventional  and  polite. 

*'  Not  always,"  he  replied,  falling  into  the  trap; 
"au  r«voir,  Vittoria;  occupy  yourself  with  the 
flowers,  and  this  evening  we  will  go  under  the 
Loggia  di  Orcagna." 


126  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

He  disappeared  into  the  other  room.  For  several 
minutes  she  continued  to  gather  together  the 
branches  of  odorous  Hlies  and  fragrant  roses. 
Then  she  went  on  tip-toe  to  the  bedroom  door, 
looked  in,  and  listened.  Marco  was  asleep,  and 
his  face  was  wasted  with  weariness.  Then  she 
returned  to  the  table,  threw  herself  into  a  chair,  and 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  completely  unstrung. 

**  O  my  God!  my  God!'*  she  cried,  through 
her  clenched  teeth,  so  as  not  to  be  heard.  But 
the  fresh  flowers,  the  lilies  and  rich  red  roses, 
which  were  beneath  her  face  and  hands,  repelled 
her  as  something  horrid,  fell  to  the  ground,  and 
lay  there  while  she  sobbed  and  invoked  Heaven 
desperately  in  a  stifled  voice. 


VII 

*'  Decide,  little  Vittoria,"  said  Marco,  spread- 
ing a  small  map  on  the  marble  table,  "  you  must 
decide.  Here  we  are  in  Milan ;  we  have  seen  the 
.Cathedral,  the  Brera  Gallery,  and  the  Sforza 
Castle.     There  is  nothing  else  to  see;  decide.'* 

*'  I  decide  to  leave  because  you  don't  wish  to 
'remain,"  Vittoria  replied,  with  her  usual  reserve. 
]  "But  by  which  route  shall  we  go  to  Paris? 
Right  through  from  here  by  the  Gothard?  Or 
shall  we  step  off  at  Turin  and  go  by  Mont  Cenis? 
Look  at  the  map  carefully  and  decide.'* 
j  Ever  since  they  had  started  on  their  travels,  he 
had  kept  up  this  amiable  and  slightly  teasing  tone, 
I  that  of  a  travelling  companion,  a  little  bored,  who 
has  seen  everything,  but  is  good-natured  enough 
to  lend  himself  as  the  cicerone  of  a  tyro.  All  his 
concern  and  care  was  protecting.  He  had  the 
expression  of  a  person  who  spends  for  the  diver- 
sion and  happiness  of  another  without  participat- 
ing himself  in  the  diversion  or  the  happiness.  It 
■  was  impossible  to  conceal  this  expression,  and 
Vittoria,  with  her  common-sense,   had  understood 

his  peculiar  behaviour.     Of  Florence,  Pisa,  Siena, 

127 


128  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

Bologna,  nothing  mattered  to  ]\Iarco  Fiore,  nor  did 
it  concern  him  to  be  in  one  hotel  more  than  another, 
nor  did  it  matter  to  him  whether  he  left  by  this  or 
that  train-de-luxe — but  that  his  little  Vittoria 
should  see  and  appreciate  everything,  should  pass 
a  happy  day  without  being  too  tired,  that  all  the 
Palace  Hotels  should  give  her  hospitality,  and  that 
all  the  wagon-lits  should  make  the  journey  less 
heavy  and  tiresome  for  her,  was  his  care  and  occu- 
pation. Certainly  he  was  indifferent  to  all  the 
sights  and  changes,  to  the  arrivals  and  departures, 
like  one  who  has  seen  everything  and  could  see 
nothing  more. 

*'  Decide,  then,  Vittoria,  for  the  Gothard  or  the 
Cenis?'* 

Was  he  not  treating  her  like  a  child,  of  whom  he 
was  the  affectionate  tutor?  Vittoria  looked  at  the 
map  without  the  least  understanding  it,  and, 
raising  her  eyes,  said  to  him — 

**  You,  Marco,  by  which  route  would  you  go?" 

**  Oh,  I?"  he  exclaimed,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders, *'  I  have  been  so  often  one  way  or  the  other." 

**  Ah,"  she  said,  "  then  it  is  quite  indifferent  to 
you." 

"To  me,  yes;  though  the  Gothard  route  is  the 
more  beautiful." 

**  Let  us  take  the  other  then,"  she  added. 

**  Would  you  always  be  a  spirit  of  contradiction, 
Vittorietta?  Why  do  you  prefer  the  less  beau- 
tiful?" 


THE    PARDON  129 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

He  frowned.  Sometimes  her  cold  replies  sur- 
prised him,  freezing  all  the  gentle  concern  he 
had  in  seeing  her  content  and  happy.  When  that 
pleasant  face  grew  fixed  and  the  lips  closed,  she 
seemed  like  a'  little  unopened  flower  which  no 
ray  of  the  sun  could  open,  and  he  experienced  a 
sense  of  delusion  and  melancholy.  The  control 
he  exerted  over  himself  was  very  great.  To  be  so 
abundantly  affectionate  he  required  so  much  moral 
and  sentimental  effort,  and  she  understood  nothing 
of  it.  With  a  word  or  a  gesture  she  cut  off  all 
his  tender  good-will. 

But  to  accomplish  his  sentimental  existence  of  a 
mission,  of  a  duty  which  should  fill  the  immense 
empty  place  of  his  dead  love,  was  not  Marco  bound 
to  Vittoria's  good  and  happiness  ?  Was  it  not  his 
concern,  little  by  little,  by  daily  sympathy  and 
affection,  by  loving  tenderness,  to  heal  the  heart 
wounded  by  a  long  and  cruel  abandonment  and 
betrayal  ?  Should  he  not  make  her  forget  all  she 
had  suffered  for  him  ?  And  if  that  jealous  and 
offended  soul  was  not  completely  reassured,  if  that 
disdainful  soul  martyred  by  waiting  did  not  expand 
and  tremble  with  joy,  she  was  right  perhaps.  He 
must  be  patient  and  sweet  with  her,  as  with  an 
invalid  who  has  scarcely  reached  1  convalescence, 
and  has  still  the  horror  of  the  disease  in  the  mind. 

**  Now,  little  Vittoria,  melt  all  the  ice  which 
surrounds  your  soul,  have  a  desire  and  a  will,  my 
9 


130  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

lady,"  he  resumed,  in  the  half-mocking,  half- 
affectionate  tone  he  liked  to  take  with  her.  The 
poor  cold  soul  who  only  felt  the  affection  of  courte- 
ous words  and  the  brilliant  glance  of  the  clear  eyes, 
asked — 

"  What  do  you  wish,  then,  Marco?'* 

**  That  you  express  an  idea,  expound  a  plan  for 
the  continuance  of  our  journey.  Don*t  you  know; 
can't  you  decide?  I  will  help  you,  little  Vittoria. 
Do  you  wish  to  go  to  Paris?" 

**  Yes." 

"At  once?" 

**  This  very  evening." 

**  Very  good;  this  evening,  then,  by  the  Cenis. 
You  won't  see  the  best  part  of  the  journey,  but 
that  doesn't  matter.  How  long  would  you  like  to 
stay  in  Paris?" 

'*  As  long  as  seems  necessary  to  you,"  she 
replied,  with  a  little  uncertain  smile. 

**  Well,  ten  days  or  a  fortnight.  To  which  hotel 
would  you  like  to  go?" 

She  started  at  this  question,  and  lowered  her 
eyes. 

"  Is  it  all  the  same  to  you  perhaps  ?   If  it  is " 

"  It  isn't  all  the  same  to  me,"  she  murmured, 
with  an  evident  control  of  her  will.  '*  I  should  like 
to  go  to  a  new  hotel  where  you  have  never  been." 

Her  face  grew  pale  for  having  once  dared  to 
tell  her  secret  thought ;  then  she  blushed,  and  tears 
came  to  her  eyes. 


THE    PARDON  131 

"If  it  is  only  that,"  said  Marco  slowly,  moved, 
**  if  it  is  only  that,  it  is  easy.  We  will  go  to  the 
Elys^e  Palace." 

"Thanks,"  she  replied,  "thanks." 

She  dared  not  press  his  hand  because  they  were 
in  the  large  hall  of  the  Hotel  Milan,  among  a 
crowd  of  travellers  coming  and  going,  where  every 
one  gave  a  glance  to  the  handsome  couple,  above 
all  to  the  blonde,  with  her  pale  complexion  and 
attractive  beauty. 

"  And  at  Paris,  what  life  do  you  intend  to  lead, 
Vittorietta?" 

"Ah,  that  I  don't  know,"  she  added  serenely; 
"  I  have  ahvays  heard  from  my  childhood  of  this 
fascinating  and  terrible  place;  but  no  one  ever 
told  me  anything  exactly  about  it.  You  know 
they  leave  us  girls  very  ignorant  in  Rome,  and 
you  must  find  me  so  stupid  sometimes,  Marco." 

"  Well,  in  a  few  sentences  I  am  going  to  tell 
how  to  live  in  two  ways  in  Paris  for  ten  days  or 
a  fortnight.  You  know  that  we  have  relations  and 
friends  there,  and  quite  well  that  our  marriage 
has  been  announced  in  the  Figaro  and  Gaulois^  in 
fact  that  every  one  knows  that  we  are  coming  to 
Paris.  Bear  in  mind  the  gravity  of  wh^t  I  am  tell- 
ing you,  Vittoria,"  he  interrupted  in  emphatic 
tones. 

"  I  understand  deeply,"  she  replied  smilingly, 
backing  him  up. 

"  There  is  more.     At  Paris  there  is  my  Great 


132  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

Aunt,  the  Aunt  of  all  the  Fiore,  the  Great  Aunt 
of  the  family,  whom  we  have  respected  and 
venerated  ever  since  we  were  born,  the  Duchess 
of  Altomonte,  the  legitimist,  who  has  been  exiled 
from  Italy  for  forty  years;  a  femme  terrible^  with 
whom  they  used  to  frighten  us  at  night,  when  we 
were  small  and  could  not  sleep." 

**  Good  gracious  !"  exclaimed  Vittoria,  smiling. 

**  Very  well,  dear  Vittoria,  also  flower  of  flowers, 
as  the  poet  of  Spello  said  at  our  w^edding,  there  is 
the  first  method  of  life  at  Paris.  It  is  that  of  arriv- 
ing officially,  of  making  a  request  to  the  Duchess 
of  Altomonte  to  be  permitted  to  kiss  her  hand, 
if  not  her  foot;  to  w^arn  all  the  other  minor  aunts, 
cousins,  and  friends;  to  accept  all  the  invitations 
to  lunch,  dinner  and  tea,  to  the  theatre  and  to 
supper ;  every  day  to  have  three  luncheons  and  two 
dinners,  three  theatres  and  two  suppers ;  to  have  no 
more  peace  or  liberty,  not  to  be  able  to  speak  to 
each  other  for  a  minute,  falling  asleep  at  night, 
and  the  next  minute  it  is  morning  with  the  oppres- 
sion of  all  the  worldly  fatigues  of  the  day. 

"  Naturally  you  will  put  on  all  your  best  dresses, 
for  the  theatre,  for  the  garden  party,  or  a  ball,  all 
your  jewels  en  grande  toilette^  and  the  little  time 
which  will  remain  at  your  disposal  you  will  use 
to  change  your  costume,  your  hat,  or  your  gloves 
— five  times  a  day." 

"Does  all  that  seem  amusing  t©  you?"  she 
asked  expressionlessly. 


THE    PARDON  133 

**  Does  it  seem  amusing  to  you?" 

*'  Tell  me  the  other  way,  Marco,  to  enable  me 
to  judge." 

**  To  enable  you  to  choose,  dear  Minerva,  the 
other  way  is  :  to  arrive  and  remain  perfectly  in- 
cognito; to  let  the  proud  and  ferocious  Duchess  of 
Altomonte  go,  let  all  the  relations  and  friends  go; 
not  to  place,  and  prevent  it  from  being  placed,  any 
notice  of  our  arrival  in  the  papers;  to  live  in  per- 
fect obscurity  and  liberty,  only  going  where  we 
wish,  only  frequenting  the  places  where  we  wish 
to  amuse  ourselves  freely,  going  for  excursions  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Paris,  especially  those  ^f 
beauty,  poetry,  and  freshness,  from  Fontainebleau 
to  Saint  Germain,  from  Chantilly  to  Enghien — 
true  idylls,  Vittoria.  Otherwise  than  the  Imperial 
salon,  dry  and  hard  as  the  Duchess  of  Altomonte, 
who  has  been  infesting  it  for  the  last  forty  years  ! 
In  fact  a  life  gay  and  sympathetic,  especially  free, 
without  a  single  boring  or  heavy  duty." 

Vittoria  lowered  her  eyes  wrapped  in  thought, 
then  she  asked — 

**  I  suppose  you  have  always,  or  nearly  always, 
visited  Paris  in  the  second  way?" 

**  Not  nearly  always — always." 

'*Well  then,  Marco,"  she  replied  coldly  and 
drily,  "  I  choose  the  first  way.  It  seems  more 
proper  to  me." 

*' You  are  right,  Minerva;  let  it  be  so!"  he  ex- 
claimed, even  mere  coldly. 


VIII 

Seated  in  an  arm-chair  of  the  most  upright 
Empire  style,  a  carved  curial  chair  of  darkest 
mahogany,  with  bronze  bosses  and  ornaments, 
cushioned  in  a  myrtle  pattern,  Vittoria  sat  upright 
before  her  Great  Aunt  and  kept  respectful  silence. 
The  bride  in  this  third  and  last  visit  to  the  Duchess 
of  Altomonte,  a  visit  of  thanks  and  farewell,  wore 
a  rich  dress  of  pleated  silver,  gay  with  handsome 
embroidery;  in  her  little  ears  she  wore  solitaires, 
a  large  hat  with  a  silver-grey  feather  on  her  blond 
tresses,  and  amid  the  lace  of  her  corsage  an  antique 
necklace  of  diamonds  and  emeralds.  She  was 
dressed  so  luxuriously  because,  on  the  first  visit 
made  to  the  proud  and  austere  Bourbon  grande 
dame,  the  Duchess  had  suddenly  observed  to  her 
nephew  that  his  wife  was  dressed  too  humbly,  and 
not  suitably  to  her  position  and  the  visit  she  had 
come  to  make. 

"  Vittoria  is  very  simple  in  her  toilette,'*  Marco 
had  replied  philosophically. 

**  It  is  one  of  the  mistakes  of  society  in  modern 
times,  this  affectation  of  simplicity,**  the  Duchess 
had  replied  immediately. 

134 


THE    PARDON  135 

So  at  the  state  dinner,  which  the  Duchess  had 
given  to  the  young  couple,  to  which  had  been 
asked  all  the  old  gentlemen  and  ladies  who  had 
remained  faithful  to  the  King  of  the  Two  Sicilies, 
and  had  followed  him  in  exile  to  Paris,  Vittoria 
had  not  only  put  on  her  most  expensive  evening 
dress,  but  wore  in  her  hair  the  diadem  given  her 
by  her  mother-in-law.  Donna  Arduina,  and  round 
her  neck  a  necklace,  a  gift  from  Marco.  j 

Under  the  weight  of  the  glittering  jewels,  in 
that  respectable  but  melancholy  society,  the  pretty 
bride  had  not  pronounced  a  single  w^ord.  j 

Now,  a  day  before  their  departure,  she  had  come 
to  present  her  compliments  to  her  Great  Aunt,  and 
intimidated  by  her  surroundings,  but  especially  by^ 
the  Duchess  of  Altomonte,  Vittoria  sat  on  her' 
Empire  chair,  with  closed  mouth  and  drooping 
eyes  waiting  for  her  great  new  relation  to  con-| 
descend  a  word  and  speak  to  her.  J 

The  Duchess  of  Altomonte,  Donna  Guilia  de'j 
Masi,  born  of  the  family  of  Castropignano,  had 
completed  eighty  years.  Her  abundant  hair,  which 
she  preserved  to  that  age,  was  of  the  finest  shining 
white,  and  dressed  in  old-fashioned  style,  framing  a 
face  which  in  youth  and  maturity  must  have  re- 
flected a  majestic  and  imperious  beauty.  Of  the  past 
it  was  true  there  remained  only  an  expression  of  1 
power  in  the  still  bright  eyes,  and  the  proud  smile, ' 
wonderful  in  its  energy  at  that  age.  Certainly  the 
shoulders  were  bent  and  the  step  a  little  slow,  but, 


136  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

even  in  this  decadence  of  years  and  the  signs  of 
dissolution,  the  Duchess  had  known  how  to  impress 
and  be  imposing.  The  great  Empire  chair,  where 
she  liked  to  sit  for  hours  together,  with  a  big  em- 
broidered cushion  in  the  fashion  of  the  period 
beneath  her  feet  shod  in  black  velvet,  resembled  a 
throne,  and  the  very  black  ebony  stick  with  the 
curved  silver  handle,  on  which  she  leaned  her 
tottering  steps,  resembled  a  sceptre.  Her  whole 
person  gave  a  sense  of  immense  respect,  of  silent 
devotion,  of  a  past  of  honour  and  fidelity  to  all 
promises  and  oaths,  of  a  past  of  lofty  sacrifice 
accomplished  in  silence  without  a  request  for  com- 
pensation, of  a  life  entirely  rigid  and  firm,  where 
perhaps  there  was  wanting  a  sense  of  kindness  and 
indulgence,  but  where  all  the  other  virtues  had 
triumphed. 

The  Duchess  had  little  by  little  seen  her  kindred 
disappear,  some  carried  away  by  death,  others  by 
destiny,  some  far  away  returning  now  and  again, 
some  far  away  for  ever.  Her  legitimate  King  was 
dead,  buried  in  a  lonely  church  in  a  lonely  part 
of  Austria,  and  every  year  she  went  to  visit  her 
Queen,  a  Queen  full  of  sorrow  supported  wuth  a 
most  brave  and  admirable  mind.  The  interview 
between  them  was  usually  short,  sad,  and  austere. 
So  everything  of  the  past  and  present  added 
grandeur  to  the  figure  of  Guilia  de*  Masi,  Duchess 
of  Altomonte. 


THE    PARDON  137 

**  Marco!"  she  cried,  in  a  still  clear  voice,  in 
which  there  was  always  a  tone  of  command. 

'*  Yes,  aunt,"  he  replied  at  once. 

"  Haven't  you  something  to  see  about  for  your 
departure?  Go  and  see  to  it;  leave  me  your  wife 
and  return  for  her." 

Without  saying  a  word  he  bowed  in  obedience, 
and  kissed  the  Duchess's  hand  covered  with  large 
emerald  and  topaz  rings.  He  kissed,  too,  lightly 
Vittoria's  little  gloved  hand,  who  shot  him  a  be- 
seeching glance  secretly,  and  left. 

'*  My  daughter,"  said  the  Duchess  coldly,  play- 
ing with  her  gold  watch-chain,  "  I  wanted  to  speak 
to  you  about  something  alone,  so  1  sent  Marco 
away." 

Without  replying  Vittoria  Fiore  kept  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  majestic  lady,  waiting  for  her  words, 
not  without  secret  emotion. 

"  I  am  very  pleased  that  you  have  married  my 
nephew,  Marco  Fiore.  Even  when  your  engage- 
ment was  announced  three  or  four  years  ago  I 
approved,  because  I  had  heard  much  good  of  you 
and  your  virtues.  The  Fiore  are  certainly  a 
greater  house  than  your  own,  and  your  dowry 
hasn't  been  so  much;  but  that  doesn't  matter.  In 
marrying  you  Marco  has  turned  his  back  on  a 
past  of  folly,  and  has  begun  a  new  life." 

A  profound  expression  of  suffering  was  depicted 
on  the  bride's  face,  but  she  kept  silent. 


138  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  By  the  way,  don't  delude  yourself  :  you  haven't 
caused  this  miracle,"  continued  the  imperious  lady 
icily,  *'  he  was  bound  to  have  enough  of  the  other. 
You  will  know  later  on  how  men  tire  of  their 
most  impassioned  loves.  Maria — er — Guasco — I 
think  I  am  right — was  a  most  beautiful  and  fascin- 
ating woman,  and  Marco  raved  about  her.  He  is 
cured  now." 

And  her  inquisitorial  eyes,  which  had  read  into 
a  thousand  faces  and  a  thousand  souls  and  hearts, 
read  on  Vittoria's  face  the  deep,  tormenting  and 
incurable  doubt.  The  old  lady  raised  her  eye- 
brows slightly,  on  discovering  this  hidden  and 
torturing  truth,  and  shook  her  head. 

"You  don't  believe  in  this  recovery?  You  are 
torturing  yourself  with  the  fear  of  the  past,  my 
daughter  ?  Your  first  matrimonial  joys  have  been 
poisoned  by  it?" 

Seeing  that  she  was  understood  even  to  the 
innermost  recess  of  her  soul,  Vittoria  relaxed  her 
face,  and  closed  her  eyes,  as  if  about  to  faint. 

"  Well,  well,"  the  Duchess  said,  in  a  stronger 
and  harder  voice,  "  why  are  you  ashamed  to  con- 
fess your  sufferings  to  me?  Are  you  perchance  a 
timid  person  ?  Have  you,  maybe,  a  jealous  and 
reserved  heart?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  Vittoria  murmured,  with  a  sigh. 

*'  Then  you  are  preparing  a  sad  existence  for 
yourself.  Timid  characters  and  reserved  and 
jealous  hearts  are  destined  to  languish  in  pain  and 


THE    PARDON  139 

perish  in  suffering  without  the  world  being  aware 
of  it.  Make  a  brave  effort  over  yourself,  conquer 
yourself,  and  tell  your  thoughts  if  they  are  worthy 
of  being  heard  and  understood;  pour  forth  your 
feeling  if  it  has  truth  in  it." 

The  great  lady  acquired  an  even  more  solemn 
aspect,  and  seemed  the  expression  of  virtue  and 
nobility  of  life. 

**Ah,  I  can't,  I  can*t!"  exclaimed  Vittoria, 
placing  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth  to  repress 
herself. 

'*Why  can't  you?" 

**  Because  I  love  him,"  she  proclaimed. 

"  He  loves  you  too,  I  suppose,"  replied  the 
'Duchess,  becoming  glacial  again. 

What  uncertain  and  sorrowful  eyes  Vittoria 
raised !  ^ 

*'  You  think  he  doesn't  love  you?"  the  Duchess 
insisted. 

The  bride  humbly  and  weakly  replied,  opening 
her  arms — 

"  I  don't  know;  I  don't  know." 

"  You  deceive  yourself,"  resumed  the  great  lady 
slowly,  "  Marco  is  fond  of  you." 

A  great  disillusion  showed  itself  on  Vittoria's 
face,  a  disillusion  mixed  with  fear  and  sadness. 

**  Isn't  it  enough  for  you,  my  daughter,  that  he 
is  fond  of  you  ?  What  do  you  want  mo  'e  ?  What 
are  you  desiring?     What  are  you  seeking?" 

*'  Oh,  aunt,  aunt,"  she  ventured  to  cry  in  the 


140  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

sudden  familiarity  of  suffering,  "  I  want  him  to 
love  me,  to  love  me  with  ardour  and  passion." 

'*  As  the  other,  in  fact." 

'*  As  the  other y''  the  unhappy  woman  ventured 
to  cry. 

"  That  is  impossible,"  stated  the  Duchess. 

"  Impossible,  impossible?"  and  she  placed  her 
two  little  hands  together  convulsively. 

"It  is  so.  Marco  can't  have  for  you,  and  you 
can't  ask  it  of  him,  a  true  and  intense  passion." 

*•  But  why  ?  But  why  ?  Am  I  not  young  ?  Am 
I  not  beautiful?  Am  I  not  his?  Don't  I  adore 
him?" 

*'  All  that  is  of  no  avail.  Learn,  my  daughter, 
that  one  doesn't  have  two  passions  one  after  the 
other,  that  there  are  entire  existences  which 
scarcely  arrive  at  feeling  one,  that  there  are  other 
existences,  many  others,  which  never  feel  one,  not 
even  the  pretence  of  passion,  not  even  its  shadow. 
Passion  is  an  exceptional  thing,  it  is  outside  life." 

Terrified  and  pale  the  wretched  bride  listened  to 
the  voice  which  seemed  that  of  her  destiny,  a  grave 
voice  and  free  from  any  interest  which  was  not 
true,  a  voice  which  seemed  cruel,  but  whose  cruelty 
contained  a  lofty  common-sense. 

**  For  that  matter  don't  complain.  You  will 
know  later  on,  when  you  are  calm  and  wise,  how 
rarely  a  man  marries  with  passion  in  his  heart 
and  feelings  for  his  bride.  Men  marry  nearly 
always  to  be  quiet,  for  security  from  all  amorous 


THE    PARDOxN  141 

tempests.  Hasn't  Marco  done  this?  I  add,  to 
reassure  you,  that  in  the  rare  cases  in  which 
marriage  has  taken  place  in  obedience  to  passion 
it  has  always  ended  in  unhappiness.'* 

Vittoria  listened  nervelessly. 

"Thus  God  wills  it,"  the  Duchess  pronounced 
with  a  voice  more  profound  and  touching. 
'*  Christian  marriage,  which  faith  and  the  Church 
consecrate  for  life  and  death,  ought  not,  and  can 
not,  serve  for  the  satisfaction  of  the  voracious 
flame  of  our  senses.  And  if  it  be  so  it  is  a  state 
of  sin.  We  don't  marry,  Vittoria,  for  the  intoxi- 
cation of  a  short  time.  It  isn't  for  this  that  the 
Lord  calls  us  and  chooses  us  in  marriage  blessed 
by  Himself.  If  we  reduce  this  sacrament  to  a 
profane  pleasure,  we  violate  a  divine  law." 

*'  It  is  horrible,  it  is  horrible,"  cried  Vittoria, 
as  if  she  felt  herself  suffocated. 

*'  It  isn't  so  horrible,"  cried  the  Duchess.  **  Be 
more  Christian  than  woman  in  matrimony  and 
more  woman  than  sweetheart.  Don't  commit  the 
ugly  sin  and  grave  mistake  of  being  your  hus- 
band's mistress  !  Vittoria,  Vittoria,  don't  degrade 
yourself  in  wishing  to  be  like  the  other!  After  a 
little  you  would  be  betrayed  and  despised.  Thou- 
sands of  women  have  tried  to  be  their  husband's 
mistresses,  falling  into  a  sentimental  trap,  and 
other  thousands  will  try  it  after  you,  and  all,  my 
daughter,  all  have  had,  and  will  have,  the  same 
fate — they  will  be  betrayed  and  despised." 


142  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

"But  has  the  world  always  been  so?  Will  it 
always  be  so?  But  you,  you,  my  aunt,"  Vittoria 
ventured  to  cry,  "  weren't  you  ardently  loved  by 
your  husband  ?  You  who  shone  with  every  virtue, 
rich,  of  a  great  family.  Didn't  you  love  your 
husband,  the  Duke  of  Altomonte,  ardently  ?  That 
is  what  is  known;   tell  me  if  it  is  true." 

The  Duchess  of  Altomonte  moved  her  hand 
vaguely  and  slowly,  and  for  the  first  time  a  slight 
smile  appeared  on  her  lips. 

**A11  that  is  so  long,  long  ago!*'  and  emotion 
rendered  her  dominating  voice  less  firm,  *'  from 
the  day  on  which  he  knew  me  till  that  of  his 
death,  the  Duke  of  Altomonte  had  a  peaceful  and 
equal  tenderness  for  me,  a  strong  moral  sympathy, 
a  tranquil  and  secure  attachment." 

"Nothing  more?     Nothing  more?" 

"  It  was  enough  for  me.  I  was  quite  content, 
and  I  thanked  God  for  it  every  day,  and  even  now 
it  still  forms  the  sweetest  and  pleasantest  recollec- 
tion of  my  life,  now  too  long." 

"  And  you,  and  you,  how  did  you  love  him  ?" 

**  As  a  Christian,  Vittoria.  I  loved  him  with 
respect,  devotion,  and  fidelity." 

"Nothing  more?     Nothing  more?" 

"  Nothing  more." 

"  Did  it  satisfy  your  husband?" 

"  He  never  asked  anything  else  from  me.  I 
always  saw  him  serene;  he  died  peacefully  with 
his  hand  in  mine." 


THE    PARDON  143 

The  blond  bride,  with  her  beautiful  pale  face, 
was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  she  raised  her  eyes 
resolutely  and  desperately.  ; 

'*  I  shall  never  have  the  strength  for  this  renun- 
ciation— never,  never." 

*'  Ask  for  strength,  and  you  will  have  it." 

**  Who  will  give  it  to  me?'* 

**  Pray,  and  you  will  have  it.** 

**  Bless  me,  aunt,"  murmured  the  unhappy 
woman,  kneeling  before  the  venerable  figure  and 
bowing  her  head. 

The  face  of  the  Duchess  seemed  to  shine  with 
purest  light.  She  touched  Vittoria's  forehead 
lightly  with  her  hand,  and  raising  her  eyes  to 
Heaven,  *'  Bless,  O  Lord,  this  my  daughter.  Give 
her  strength,  and  she  shall  have  peace.'* 

Vittoria  arose,  but  neither  the  prayer  nor  the 
blessing  had  given  consolation  to  her  anguish. 


IX 

*'  MoDANE  !  MoDANE  !'*  was  cried  from  all  sides 
as  the  train-de-luxe y  arriving  from  Paris,  rumbled 
heavily  into  the  station. 

**  At  last  we  re-enter  our  fatherland,"  cried 
Marco  Fiore,  with  a  sigh  of  relief;  and,  without 
waiting  for  a  reply  from  Vittoria,  he  placed  his 
grey  travelling  cap  on  his  head  and  left  the  com- 
partment. 

"  Ought  I  to  come  too?"  Vittoria  asked,  as  she 
rejoined  him  in  the  corridor. 

**  If  you  want  a  stroll,  yes.  If  not,  it  isn't 
necessary.     The  station  is  very  grey  and  gloomy." 

"  Very  gloomy,"  repeated  the  woman  in  a  low 


voice. 

(C 


But  our  country  is  so  beautiful.  Aren't  you 
content  to  return  home?" 

'*  I  am  glad,"  she  replied,  without  further 
observation.  He  looked  at  her  as  he  did  now  and 
then  with  a  scrutinising  eye,  but  the  pure  face 
assumed  that  cold  and  closed  aspect  against  which 
every  glance  failed. 

**  I  am  going  for  a  small  stroll,"  he  said,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders  lightly,  *'  the  luggage  will  be 

examined  later  on  in  the  train." 

144 


THE    PARDON  145 

He  disappeared  along  the  corridor,  and  a  little 
later  Vittoria  saw  him  walking  up  and  down  in 
the  gloomy  station,  which  not  even  the  late  May 
sun  managed  to  lighten.  Then  she  rose  and  placed 
herself  before  the  window  on  the  other  side  of  the 
compartment,  watching  another  train  stop  on  its 
way  to  France.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  train. 
She  tried  to  discover  the  faces  of  those  who 
were  travelling  within,  to  question  if  possible 
their  physiognomies,  and  read  there  what  was 
passing. 

She  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  felt  jealous  of  those 
who  were  leaving  Italy  perhaps  for  ever,  and  were 
travelling  to  France  or  England,  or  further,  per- 
haps, never  to  return.  She  would  have  liked  to 
have  been  one  of  those  unknown  travellers,  to  turn 
her  back  for  ever  on  her  country,  to  take  away 
with  her  the  man  she  adored,  far,  far  away  to 
unknown  countries,  losing  at  last  the  recollection 
of  her  own  country,  of  her  own  people. 

"Oh,  this  returning,  this  returning!"  she 
thought  to  herself  so  desperately  that  she  almost 
said  it  aloud. 

She  fell  back  on  her  seat  and  searched  among 
the  flowers  and  books  in  front  of  her  for  some- 
thing to  distract  herself,  a  volume  or  a  time-table. 
Then  she  leaned  her  head  against  the  arm  of  the 
seat,  and  closed  her  eyes  in  an  endeavour  not  to 
think,  to  suppress  the  subtle  and  voracious  work 
of  the  jealousy  which  caused  her  to  think. 
10 


146  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  We  are  off  at  last,"  said  Marco,  entering  the 
compartment. 

Heavily  the  train  started,  leaving  the  shadow  of 
the  gloomy  station,  and  began  to  run  among  the 
green  meadows  completely  covered  with  flowers, 
which  stretched  beneath  the  mountains  around 
Mont  Cenis. 

**  We  are  returning  home,  little  Vittoria;  we 
are  returning  to  our  own  house,  to  our  own  bed, 
where  no  one  else  has  slept  the  night  before,  and 
where  no  stranger  will  sleep  the  night  after. 
Home,  home;  no  more  hotels,  no  more  restaurants 
where  the  cooking  is  of  an  unknown  proyision  and 
quantity.  I  assure  you,  my  dear,  that  at  Casa 
Fiore  there  is  an  excellent  cook,  whose  kitchen 
presents  no  mysteries.  What  a  pleasure  to  dine 
and  sleep  in  the  house  of  the  Fiore  in  via  Bocca 
di  Leone  !'* 

Vittoria  listened  attentively  to  Marco's  tirade, 
with  its  forced  gaiety,  where  a  little  irritation  was 
pressing. 

**  This  journey  has  tired  you,  Marco?"  she 
asked,  as  if  she  had  noticed  something  of  no 
importance. 

"Physically,  perhaps,"  he  replied  quickly;  **  I 
am  not  so  young  as  I  was." 

"  You  are  thirty-two." 

"  But  I  have  lived  far  more  than  my  years,"  he 
replied,  with  candour. 


THE    PARDON  147 

**  That  is  true,"  she  replied  calmly;  **  instead  of 
travelling  we  could  have  gone  to  Spello.** 

*'  Oh,  Spello  isn't  very  amusing,  dear.  You 
will  see  it  this  summer.  Besides,  oughtn't  you 
to  have  a  nice  honeymoon." 

*'I?"  she  exclaimed,  trembling. 

**  Yes,  you,  Vittoria.  I  had  to  give  you,  my 
beauty,  a  nice,  amusing,  pleasing  honeymoon. 
You  deserved  it;    I  hope  I  behaved  well?" 

"  Very  well,"  she  replied  ambiguously. 

**  Have  I  been  a  good  travelling  companion — in- 
telligent, zealous,  amiable?'* 

*'  You  have  been  all  that,  Marco,"  she  replied 
coldly. 

**  Have  I,  then,  accomplished  that  part  of  my 
mission?     Have  I  accomplished  it  as  I  ought  to?" 

''Have  you,  Marco,  a  mission?  And  what  is 
it?"  she  asked,  not  without  some  harshness. 

"  That  which  the  priest  told  me  in  Santa  Maria 
del  Popolo ;  that  which  the  mayor  told  us  at  Cam- 
pidoglio;  that  which  I  have  given  myself." 

**  That  is?"  she  replied,  still  coldly. 

*'  To  make  you  happy,  darling,"  he  concluded 
somewhat  caressingly,  to  alleviate  the  solemnity  of 
the  words. 

**  Ah!"  she  exclaimed,  without  further  observa- 
tion. 

**  Then  you  give  me  my  first  certificate,  my 
wife?      Have   you    been    happy   or    not   on    your 


148  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

travels?  Have  I  done  everything  to  make  you 
happy?" 

"  You  have  done  as  much  as  you  could,"  she 
replied,  without  emphasising  the  words. 

"  That  is  all?''  he  insisted,  looking  at  her. 

*'  All  you  could." 

He  frowned,  and  was  silent.  She,  too,  was 
silent,  turning  her  head  away.  An  instant  after- 
wards, with  a  fastidious  accent,  he  added — 

'*  Now  I  am  a  little  tired,  and  am  glad  to  return 
home." 

The  train  ran  on  through  the  country  that  leads 
to  Susa,  and  from  Susa  to  Turin. 

'*  Have  you  written  to  your  mother  and  sister 
that  we  are  returning?"  he  asked  absently. 

*'No,"  she  replied. 

**  When  do  you  count  on  doing  it?" 

**  I  don't  know.  I  was  thinking  of  counter 
orders,  of  a  prolonging  of  the  journey,  of  delay. 
I  don't  know,"  she  said,  confused. 

**  We  will  telegraph,  then,  from  Turin;  we  stop 
two  hours  there,"  he  added  somewhat  drily. 

*' Are  we  going  straight  on  to  Rome?"  she 
asked  a  little  timidly. 

"  Naturally,  naturally.  We  arrive  at  Rome  at 
ten  to-morrow." 

"Ah." 

In  spite  of  her  intense  power  of  dissimulation, 
she  did  not  succeed  in  hiding  an  expression  of 
fear. 


THE    PARDON  149 

'•  It  seems  to  me,  Vittoria/'  said  Marco,  who 
had  become  very  bad-tempered,  "  that  you  view 
with  Httle  pleasure  our  returning  to  Rome.** 

**  You  are  mistaken.** 

**  Perhaps  I  am  not  mistaken.  All  other  wives 
feel  a  real  need  of  their  homes;  you,  it  seems, 
scarcely  experience  this  need.*' 

'*  It  isn't  true;  it  isn't  true,"  she  stammered. 

'*  Do  me  the  honour  not  to  take  me  for  an  idiot," 
he  retorted  quickly;  "  Casa  Fiore  doesn't  seem 
good  enough  for  your  presence!** 

**Oh,  Marco!"  she  protested,  with  a  voice  full 
of  tears. 

*'  Rome  seems  a  capital  too  small  for  you  ?  The 
place  where  your  mother  and  my  mother  live  seems 
mean  and  empty  to  you,  perhaps?" 

*' Marco!  Marco!**  she  begged. 

But  her  husband  was  now  exasperated.  The 
first  angry,  violent  conjugal  dispute  had  broken 
out,  and  she  tried  in  vain  to  calm  it.  Trembling 
prevented  her  from  pronouncing  a  word.  She  felt 
suffocated. 

"  Can  you  deny  it?**  he  replied,  in  a  voice  where 
anger  and  irony  hissed.  "  Do  you  deny  that 
you  don*t  share  my  consolation  in  returning  to 
Rome?** 

Without  speaking  she  clasped  her  hands  as  if  to 
implore  him  to  torture  her  no  more. 

'*  I  am  sorry  to  tell  you,  dear  Vittoria,**  he  con- 
tinued implacably,  "  that  sometimes  you  lie.** 


I50  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

**  Oh  !  oh  !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  movement  of 
horror,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Or  you  dissimulate,  which  amounts  to  the  same 
thing."  ' 

Although  he  saw  that  she  was  growing  pale,  he 
w^as  unable  to  restrain  his  indignation. 

**  Vittoria  !"  he  exclaimed  loudly,  as  if  to  startle 
her,  "  will  you  answer  me?" 

Terrified,  she  looked  at  him  with  wide-open 
eyes. 

"I  have  always  been  used  to  truthful  women; 
will  you  tell  me  the  truth?" 

**Yes,"  she  declared,  as  if  this  reminder  had 
offended  her  mortally,  restoring  all  her  strength 
to  her. 

"Why  aren't  you  glad  to  return  home?  Why 
don't  you  rejoice  to  embrace  your  people  again  ? 
Why  aren't  you  happy  to  find  yourself  in  Rome 
again  to-morrow,  to  begin  your  new  life?  Reply, 
conceal  nothing,  and  don't  dissimulate.  Tell  me 
the  truth  as  it  has  always  been  told  to  me." 

**  I  hate  Rome!"  she  exclaimed,  offended,  and 
making  a  supreme  effort  to  tell  her  secret. 

*'You  hate  Rome!     Why?" 

**  You  know  the  reason;  don't  oblige  me  to  tell 
it,"  she  added,  with  dignity  and  supplication. 

Immediately  all  the  man's  anger  evaporated. 
Again  human  charity  and  fraternal  pity  moved 
him. 


THE    PARDON  151 

'*You  are  ill,  Vittoria,"  he  said.  "You  must 
get  well." 

She  made  a  vague  gesture  of  denial  and  of 
impossibility,  and  said  nothing  more.  Nor  did 
he  attempt  to  break  the  heavy  silence. 


Emilio  Guasco  is  forty.  He  is  tall,  thin,  dried 
up,  and  appears  robust.  His  face  is  brown,  with 
shining  black  moustaches.  His  hair  is  black, 
though  white  at  the  temples,  which  brightens  and 
sweetens  the  swarthiness  of  his  complexion.  His 
eyes  are  exceedingly  black,  of  an  opaque  black- 
ness when  their  glance  is  tired  or  in  repose,  but 
sometimes  a  secret  force  animates  them,  giving 
an  ardent  and  gloomy  character  to  his  face.  The 
forehead  is  ample  and  well-defined,  the  nose  aqui- 
line, the  chin  long,  showing  an  obstinate  will. 
The  profile  is  somewhat  hard  and  sharp,  scarcely 
tempered  by  a  mouth  still  fresh  and  youthful,  in 
which  an  acute  eye  can  sometimes  notice  indulg- 
ence and  good  nature. 

But  in  general  Emilio's  face  is  austere,  some- 
times gloomy,  while  its  lines,  if  not  exactly  cor- 
rect, are  at  least  harmonious.  In  spite  of  all 
this  Emilio's  appearance  is  striking  and  at- 
tractive, with  the  attraction  of  all  men  whose 
appearance  speaks  of  spirit  and  energy.  A  por- 
tion of  the  men  he  associated  with,  a  small  por- 
tion certainly,  came  to  him  with  that  species  of 
secure   instinct,    which   human   sympathy   has   for 

i     "' 

) 


THE    PARDOxN  153 

souls  which  contain  a  really  personal  secret  of 
life.  Another  portion,  a  larger  one,  regarded  him 
with  a  certain  respect  mixed  with  repulsion,  con- 
sidering him  a  dramatic  character  in  a  laughable 
comedy.  A  last  portion,  and  this  the  greatest  and 
most  frivolous,  avoided  him  as  a  great  bore,  who 
prevented  others  from  amusing  themselves  and 
taking  life  as  a  farce. 

Emilio  Guasco  belongs  tg  the  old  Roman  bour- 
geois, and  to  the  old  bank  which  for  over  a 
hundred  years  has  been  allied  with  the  Roman 
aristocracy  and  later  to  the  great  Italian  society, 
which  has  taken  up  its  abode  in  Rome  around  the 
rule  of  the  Quirinal.  His  ancestors,  as  well  as  his 
father  and  uncles,  have  always  belonged  to  the 
smart  set,  mixing  with  it  intimately,  while  in  busi- 
ness they  had  dealings  with  other  important  sets  of 
the  capital.  Frequently  they  have  been  the  saviours 
of  noble  fortunes  in  danger,  and  of  secret  aid  to 
Italian  politics,  so  often  in  the  early  days  in  need 
of  pecuniary  assistance. 

Emilio  is  the  only  son.  His  father  is  dead, 
and  he  is  in  partnership  with  his  uncles  and  cousins 
in  the  bank  of  Guasco  and  Co.  But  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  from  childhood,  boyhood,  and  youth 
he  has  always  been  in  the  midst  of  affairs,  and 
that,  during  the  last  ten  years,  after  a  violent 
economic  crisis,  affairs  in  Rome  are  waking  up 
again,  he  is  a  very  mediocre  man  of  business 
and    banker.      He    never    likes    this    intellectual 


154  AFTER   THE   PARDON 

work,  which  is  sometimes  not  without  its  excite- 
ment and  poetry,  so  he  works  at  the  Guasco 
Bank  moderately,  methodically,  aridly,  without  a 
gleam  of  geniality  or  passion.  Thus  he  continues 
his  father's  work,  which  had  been  fervid,  effica- 
cious and  fortunate;  he  continues  it  as  a  heavy 
duty,  which  he  limits  to  the  narrowest  and  most 
external  mechanical  participation. 

Sometimes  he  believes  that  he  would  gladly 
leave  the  bank,  leaving  the  bulk  of  his  capital  there 
but  renouncing  its  management :  sometimes  he 
himself  has  vaguely  hinted  that  he  wished  to  hear 
nothing  more  of  it.  However,  his  cousin,  Robert 
Guasco,  forced  him  to  stay  so  as  not  to  give  the 
appearance  of  weakening  the  bank.  Robert, 
luckily,  is  a  very  intelligent  banker,  capable  and 
laborious,  and  his  mind,  strength,  and  enormous 
activity  compensate  for  Emilio's  cold  inertia. 

'*  Whatever  do  you  want  with  an  idiot  and  a 
business  nonentity  like  me?  Let  me  go,'*  Emilio 
often  said  to  his  cousin,  with  a  wan  smile. 

"  Remain,  remain,"  Robert  would  say,  without 
taking  any  notice  of  the  protest. 

So  Emilio  Guasco  remains  at  his  work.  Some- 
times he  even  asks  himself  what  he  would  do  if  he 
were  to  leave  the  firm  and  had  to  spend  his  con- 
siderable income  alone,  and  how  he  would  dedicate 
his  time  so  tiring  and  boresome.  From  youth  he 
has  always  felt  the  natural  sadness  of  his  tempera- 
ment.    He  has  tried  to  counteract  and  drive  away 


THE    PARDON  i55 

this  sadness  by  giving  himself  to  the  sports  held 
in  honour  in  Rome  for  years,  and  to  the  new  games 
introduced  there  recently  by  the  foreign  element. 
Emilio  is  an  expert  and  daring  rider,  and  few 
have  a  better  seat.  Every  year  he  is  a  faithful 
rider  to  hounds.  But  to  this  brilliant  and  rather 
fashionable  sport  he  prefers  that  other  hunting, 
solitary  and  melancholy,  among  the  large  regions 
about  Palidoro,  Maccarese,  and  Pontegalera, 
where  one  goes  dressed  in  thick  fustian,  exchang- 
ing a  few  words  with  the  cow-boys  to  be  met  with 
on  horseback,  wrapped  in  brown  mantles  with  a 
lining  of  green  serge.  Sometimes  he  is  absent  two 
or  three  days  at  these  hunts,  so  much  in  keeping 
with  his  thoughtful  and  sad  character,  sleeping  in 
a  buffalo  tent  as  in  Africa.  His  friends  tell  him 
of  the  example  of  Prospero  Ludovisi,  a  keen 
hunter,  whe  took  a  most  pernicious  fever  at  Macca- 
rese and  died  suddenly  of  it  in  thirty-six  hours. 
The  malaria  is  especially  deadly  in  that  vast  and 
deserted  region.  Emilio  only  smiles.  Among 
modern  sports  he  prefers  of  all  the  English  games, 
on  :foot  or  horse,  by  sea  or  land,  Golf — Golf,  which 
is  the  adoration  of  all  spirits  fond  of  the  open  air, 
of  solitude  and  silence, — Golf  which  is  the  true 
symbol  of  the  solitary  man.  At  his  club  he  seldom 
mixes  with  the  many  players  of  poker,  but  he  is  a 
silent  and  unwearying  devotee  of  bridge. 

Emilio  Guasco,  in  his  early  youth,  has  had  his 
love  affairs.     He  has  not,  however,  committed  any 


156  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

of  the  follies  of  the  pleasure-seekers,  which  in 
public  opinion  has  classed  him  among  the  coldest 
of  men  to  whom  women  have  little  or  nothing  to 
say.  Some,  the  more  spiteful,  have  accused  him 
of  avarice,  since  love  in  general,  and  under  certain 
conditions,  implies  generosity  of  spirit  and  of 
purse. 

He  has  never  compromised  any  one,  and  his 
adventures  have  been  discreet  and  somewhat 
mediocre.  The  heart  which  he  brought  when 
married  to  the  lovely  and  fascinating  Maria  Simon- 
etti  was  one  very  sane,  without  perversion  and 
corruption,  a  sincere  heart  which  gave  itself  not 
in  mad  transports  but  w^ith  seriousness  and  faith. 
If  not  exceedingly  in  love  during  his  engagement, 
he  was  in  love. 

One  could  say  that  he  married  for  love  of  the 
enchanting  girl  who  brought  him  only  a  good 
name,  but  not  a  soldo  of  dowry.  Nor  was  his 
love  a  smothered  flame  which  alters  in  marriage, 
bursting  forth  as  a  conflagration  of  passion.  He 
loved  Maria  moderately,  with  a  just  affection 
which  afterwards  had  no  diminution,  but  no  in- 
crease. He  had  esteemed  his  fiancee  deeply,  and 
afterwards  his  wife,  for  her  character  and  mettle, 
her  pride  and  truth;  he  had  even  felt  a  little  of 
her  fascination,  but  not  all  of  it.  Especially,  he 
had  not  experienced  in  the  first  year  of  his  marriage 
that  joy  of  life  which  causes  the  hearts  of  the  newly 
married  to  vibrate,  exalts  their  souls,  and  later  on 
seems  to  make  them  accept  an  existence  less  joyful 


THE    PARDON  157 

and  less  happy  through  the  unforgettable  beauty 
of  their  first  recollections.  Emilio  did  not  recog- 
nise till  later,  much  later,  the  immense  delusion 
he  had  been  as  a  husband  to  the  passionate  heart 
of  Maria  Simonetti ;  he  became  aware  of  it  when 
there  was  no  longer  time  and  all  was  lost. 

For  a  long  time  he  believed  he  had  done  all  he 
could  for  his  lady,  being  fond  of  her,  respecting, 
honouring,  and  never  being  false  to  her,  but 
nothing  more.  He  had  not  understood  that  Maria 
Simonetti's  life  and  happiness  were  in  his  two 
hands.  Not  having  understood  that,  he  had  let 
Maria's  life  languish  in  sentimental  and  moral 
misery ;  so  that  she  sought  elsewhere  the  way 
of  magnifying  all  her  faculties  and  sensations. 
When  he  understood  it  was  too  late :  that  was 
afterwards.  It  was  afterwards  that,  intolerant  of 
lies,  inept  at  deception,  Maria  Guasco  Simonetti 
had  left  her  husband's  house  and  had  fled  with 
•Marco  Fiore. 

Then  Emilio  Guasco  had  seen  all  the  error  of 
his  existence,  of  his  indifference,  his  want  of  any 
abandonment,  of  any  enthusiasm.  Alone,  in  a 
suddenly  deserted  house  and  dishonoured,  he  dis- 
covered his  original  sin,  aridity,  that'  grave  sin 
which  separates  us  from  everything  beautiful  and 
everybody  beloved;  which  makes  those  flee  from 
us  fatally  whom  we  do  not  know  how  to  love.  The 
tragedy  which  that  day  had  brought  him  in  the 
flight  of  his  wife  with   her  lover  had  still  more 


158  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

paralysed  Emilio's  mind,  which  was  incapable  of 
efficacious  fury,  incapable  of  sustained  impulse, 
and  capable  only  of  sorrow  and  a  slow  and  pointless 
sadness. 

He  had  not  acted  and  rushed  after  Maria  and 
Marco;  but  had  remained  at  home  to  suffer  in 
silence.  A  part  of  the  society  in  which  he  lived 
called  it  an  immense  disgrace,  because  to  all  of 
them  he  was  what  is  termed  a  perfect  husband;  a 
smaller  part,  more  intelligent  and  original,  had 
proclaimed  that  he  deserved  no  better  treatment, 
since  he  had  not  known  how  to  love  Maria  worthily, 
and  that,  in  fact,  he  had  annoyed  and  exasperated 
her.  Secretly,  in  the  long  examinations  of  con- 
science which  every  man  makes  with  himself  in  the 
hours  of  moral  crisis,  Emilio  thought  those  right 
who  had  indicted  him  as  the  first  author  of 
his  wife's  funereal  act.  He  saw,  on  one  of  his 
sleepless  nights,  with  the  eyes  of  his  soul  all  that 
he  ought  to  have  been  and  had  not  been.  Certain 
deep  truths  of  the  spirit  and  the  heart,  hitherto 
unknown  to  him,  appeared  to  him  in  vivid  light. 
As  in  all  great  revolutions  which  transform  and 
remake  the  inner  life  of  a  being,  many  new  habits 
were  formed  by  him  in  the  three  years  of  solitude 
and  abandonment,  singular  habits  different  and 
contradictory  to  each  other. 

While  Maria*s  flight  with  Marco  had  given  him 

'acute  anguish,  the  moral  figure  of  his  wife  appeared 

prouder  and  bolder  in  its  act  of  liberation,  and  if 


THE    PARDON  159 

the  husband  still  carried  with  him  all  the  pain  of 
the  offence,  so  as  to  feel  the  impression  of  a  bleed- 
ing wound  for  three  years,  the  man  had  admired 
in  Maria  her  lofty  contempt  of  every  minor  good 
to  obtain  the  one  supreme  good.  While  Maria 
was  far  away,  as  if  lost  in  the  vast  world,  Emilio 
saw  her  again  near  him  palpitating  with  beauty 
and  life,  and  he  began  to  love  her  in  solitary 
silence,  vainly  and  uselessly.  He  surprised  him- 
self into  desiring  and  wanting  her  more  than  ever, 
and  in  his  empty  love  and  desire  he  ended  by 
knowing  that  powerful  and  terrible  instinct  of  love 
— jealousy. 

He  had  always  marvelled  when  he  saw  in  others 
the  interior  torturing  lashes  of  jealousy,  and  its 
external  manifestations.  Now  he  is  a  victim  to 
this  gloomy  and  fascinating  force  which  comes 
from  the  lowest  elements  of  the  human  system, 
but  which  dominates  a  man  entirely.  Sometimes 
he  would  give  his  blood  to  snatch  his  wife  away 
from  the  arms  of  Marco  Fiore,  at  other  times  he 
was  seized  by  an  exasperation  which  almost  led 
him  to  a  crime.  Then  he  had  to  leave  RoBae  and 
go  far  away  where  only  memory  could  follow  him. 
On  his  return,  through  the  natural  power  of  his 
equilibrium,  he  was  always  calm,  patient,  and  sad. 

At  last,  at  the  end  of  three  years,  so  long  to  a 
heart  which  had  never  known  how  to  love,  which 
perhaps  had  still  not  learned  to  love  better  but 
was   not   inept   to   suffer,    Emilio,   with   concealed 


i6o  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

curiosity  and  anxiety,  had  learnt  that  the  amorous 
folly  of  Marco  and  Maria  had  begun  to  languish, 
had  become  a  folly's  shadow,  and  was  lapsing  into 
a  pale  usage.  From  this  knowledge  which  reached 
him  from  reliable  sources,  from  secret  inquiries 
which  he  had  made  with  extreme  caution,  knowing 
how  every  day  that  love  shadow  was  vanishing 
more  and  more,  a  unique  sentiment,  derived  from 
so  many  opposite  sentiments  at  war  with  each  other, 
had  raised  his  heart  almost  to  heroism.  This  was 
the  sentiment  of  human  and  Christian  pity  for 
a  miserable  woman  who  had  wanted  and  still 
wanted  to  give  her  life  to  her  dream,  who  instead 
saw  all  her  dream  vanish  before  her  in  a  time 
which  seemed  as  short  as  a  flash  of  lightning. 
Anger  long  repressed,  sorrow  long  concealed,  the 
offence  which  wounds  without  ever  a  wound 
appearing,  love  rendered  more  supreme  and  con- 
suming in  jealousy  itself, — all  in  Emilio  Guasco 
was  sunk  in  this  tender  compassion  for  Maria. 
He  felt  within  himself  all  the  evangelical  virtue  of 
charity,  perhaps  stronger  than  any  other  senti- 
mental impulse.  He  was  the  good  Samaritan  who 
rescues  the  dying  man  on  the  road-side,  doctors 
his  cruel  wounds,  and  pours  out  the  balsam  that 
heals. 

Thus  the  pardon  had  been  offered  by  Emilio 
Guasco  to  the  wife  who  had  betrayed  and  left  him. 
When  he  had  sent  her  word  he  had  thought 
nothing  more  of  the  past  or  the  future;  he  had 


THE    PARDON  i6i 

thought  only  of  healing  the  poor  creature^s 
wounds,  struck  by  passion^s  cruel  and  implacable 
weapons;  he  felt  within  himself  a  new  soul 
greater,  more  generous,  and  superior  to  sophisms 
and  the  world's  axioms.  There  seemed  to  be 
something  heroic  in  his  heart,  which  raised  and 
exalted  him  as  at  no  other  time  in  his  life.  The 
immense  tenderness  he  felt  for  her  reacted  on  him ; 
he  pitied  and  admired  himself  like  the  heroic 
person  in  a  romance  v;hose  story  he  sometimes 
read.  The  nearer  the  day  of  her  return  approached, 
the  more  his  emotion  increased,  the  more  the  noble 
and  sublime  thing,  which  is  pardon,  the  law  which 
Christ  has  given  as  the  most  supreme,  seemed  to 
find  in  him  a  pure  interpreter.  So  on  that  April 
evening  in  the  presence  of  the  woman,  pale  and 
trembling  as  he  had  never  seen  her  before  and 
would  never  see  her  again,  he  had  pronounced 
those  Christian  words  which  cancel,  absolve,  and 
redeem — 

'*  I  pardon  you,  Maria.'* 

But  suddenly  afterwards,  in  a  flash,  he  felt  this 
unique  and  noble  sentiment,  this  Christian  pity, 
destroyed  within  him,  as  if  it  could  only  give  him 
one  supreme  moment  of  heroism.  He  felt  all  the 
old  sentiments  rise  again  in  his  mind,  contending 
among  themselves — anger,  suffering,  love  and 
jealousy,  and  he  was  seized  again  in  their  power 
without  guide  or  will. 


II 


XI 


Maria  Guasco  was  proceeding  minutely  to  the 
completion  of  her  toilette.  That  morning  she  was 
wearing  a  cloth  dress  of  maroon  colour,  cut  in  the 
English  fashion,  through  the  jacket  of  which  a 
blouse  of  white  Irish  lace  was  to  be  seen;  the 
full  skirt  in  big  pleats  discovered  the  neat  feet 
shod  in  black  kid.  A  large  straw  hat,  with  a 
circlet  of  red  roses  and  a  thin  veil,  was  placed 
over  the  chestnut  hair,  affording  a  glimpse  of  its 
waves  over  the  forehead,  temple  and  neck.  In  her 
simple  dress  without  ornaments,  and  in  its  exact 
lines,  she  looked  enchantingly  young.  She  said  to 
Chiara,  who  was  hovering  round  offering  her 
gloves,  parasol,  and  purse — 

'*  Let  your  master  know  that  I  am  ready  and 
waiting  for  him  here." 

Meanwhile  she  buttoned  her  yellow  deerskin 
gloves  and  verified  the  contents  of  her  purse. 

"  The  master  begs  Your  Excellency  to  oblige 
him  with  your  presence  in  the  study,"  said  Chiara 
on  returning  in  a  low  voice. 

Maria  frowned  slightly,  and  for  an  instant  the 
colour  left  her  cheeks.  Then,  as  if  her  will  pre- 
dominated immediately,  she  proceeded  towards  her 

162 


THE    PARDON  163 

husband's  study,  and  not  a  shadow  of  her  recent 
emotion  appeared  on  her  recomposed  face. 

Seated  behind  his  desk  Emilio  was  writing  a 
letter  and  smoking  a  cigarette.  He  did  not  raise 
his  head. 

**  Well,  Emilio,"  asked  his  wife  in  a  soothing 
voice,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  "aren't 
you  dressed  for  the  meet?" 

"  No,"  he  replied,  raising  his  head  from  his 
letter  absently,  *'  I  am  not  dressed." 

"  Wasn't  this  the  hour?"  she  continued  gently; 
**  ten  o'clock,  I  think." 

**  Yes,  ten  o'clock,"  and  he  lowered  his  head, 
resuming  his  writing. 

Maria's  gloved  hand  nervously  clutched  the  onyx 
knob  of  her  parasol. 

"  Well,  well,"  she  asked  again,  with  a  certain 
insistency.  Emilio  let  his  pen  fall,  throwing  it 
on  the  table,  pushed  the  letter  aside,  and  leaning 
back  in  his  chair  regarded  his  wife  for  a  long 
time  earnestly  without  speaking. 

'*  I  have  decided  not  to  go  to  this  last  meet." 

''Ah!"  said  Maria  only. 

Then,  as  if  it  annoyed  her  to  remain  standing 
before  her  husband's  desk,  her  eyes  sought  a  chair. 
She  found  one  a  little  bit  away  and  sat  down,  still 
holding  her  parasol  and  purse,  in  the  attitude  of  a 
lady  paying  a  visit. 

Both  were  silent;  though,  as  ever  since  her 
return,   he  fixed  his  eyes  on   his  wife's  face  and 


i64  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

person  with  a  curiosity  half  thoughtful  and  half 
observant,  with  an  attitude  of  acute  investigation 
which  sometimes  embarrassed  Maria. 

'*  Still,  Emilio,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  to  break 
the  silence,  *' you  are  so  fond  of  fox-hunting.** 

**  I  like  it  very  much,  it  is  true,**  he  replied. 

**  And  it  will  be  a  year  before  you  can  begin 
again.** 

**  That  is  true.** 

**  Didn't  you  decide  yesterday  evening  to  go?** 

**  Certainly  I  did  decide  to  go;  but  a  night  has 
passed  on  it.** 

**  You  don't  sleep  at  night  and  think  of  the 
meet  at  Cecilia  Metella?'*  she  asked,  trying  to 
joke. 

**  Eh,  one  doesn't  always  sleep,"  he  replied, 
with  an  irritable  gesture  of  annoyance. 

She  was  silent.  Then  she  raised  her  head  reso- 
lutely. 

"  Since  I  should  have  accompanied  you,  may  I 
consider  myself  free?"  she  asked,  with  some 
impatience. 

**You  have  other  plans?"  he  murmured,  look- 
ing at  her  again  fixedly. 

**  I  have  had  no  others  from  the  moment  that 
it  was  arranged  that  we  should  go  out  together,** 
she  replied  quickly. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  having  made  you  dress; 
you  have  lost  a  toilette.** 

"It  doesn't   matter,**   she  said,   shrugging   her 


THE    PARDON  165 

shoulders,  and  she  began  to  trace  the  arabesque 
designs  of  the  carpet  with  her  parasol. 

"Emilio?"  she  said  suddenly. 

•'Maria!'' 

"Why  don't  you  go  alone  to  Cecilia  Metella? 
Go  and  put  on  your  pink;  the  victoria  is  ready, 
and  will  take  you  to  where  Francesco  is  waiting 
with  the  horses.     Go  now." 

Her  tone  was  quiet,  indifferent,  and  persuasive. 

**No!"  he  exclaimed,  with  an  angry  gesture; 
*'I  don't  want  to." 

**  Emilio,"  she  continued,  in  a  voice  still  more 
persuasive,  "  I  know  that  it  is  on  my  account  that 
you  are  not  going  to  Cecilia  Metella.  I  beg  you 
not  to  renounce  this  pleasure," 

"  Thank  you;  I  shall  not  go,"  he  said  drily. 

Maria  got  up  suddenly,  as  if  she  had  nothing 
further  to  say. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  exclaimed,  rising 
from  his  seat  and  following  her  for  a  few  steps. 

"To  my  room,"  she  replied,  a  little  surprised; 
"then  I  shall  go  out." 

"To  go  where?"  he  asked  again  harshly. 

"I  don't  know;  I  shall  go  for  a  walk  some- 
where," she  said,  still  more  surprised.     ' 

"  Where?"  and  anger  trembled  in  the  demand. 

"Emilio  I"  she  exclaimed  in  sweet  reproach; 
"Emilio!" 

He  changed  colour. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Maria,  I  beg  your  pardon." 


i66  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

He  threw  himself  on  a  large  sofa,  without  taking 
the  hand  she  offered  him.  The  woman  remained 
standing,  and  looked  at  him. 

"Shall  we  go  out  together,  Emilio?'*  she  asked 
patiently. 

**No.** 

"  Let  us  go  outside  the  city  where  there  is  no- 
body." 

''No,  no.'' 

"  In  the  carriage  to  Villa  Pamphily?  It  is  such 
a  beautiful  morning,  and  the  air  is  so  soft.  Come, 
do.'* 

"  No,  no,  no !"  he  exclaimed,  without  looking  at 
her. 

"Well,  then,  what  ought  I  to  do?"  she  asked 
patiently. 

"  Nothing." 

"  What  do  you  wish  to  do?'* 

"  Nothing." 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  remain?  Do  you  wish 
me  to  go?"  and  the  tone  was  one  of  sublime 
patience. 

He  understood  it  and  melted. 

"  Maria,  you  are  treating  me  like  a  child.  Do 
you  think  I  am  ill  ?  I  have  white  hair,  but  I  am 
not  infirm." 

She  noticed  all  the  signs  of  anger  and  suffering. 

"  At  times  we  are  ill  without  knowing  it,  and 
we  mustn't  repulse  an  affectionate  hand." 

"  What  charity  !"  he  exclaimed,  with  irony. 


THE    PARDON  167 

**  What  are  you  irritated  about,  Emilio?  Be- 
cause of  the  sentiment  or  the  person  ?'*  she  asked. 

"  For  the  two  things,"  he  replied,  with  asperity. 

*'Ah!"  she  said,  and  her  hand,  trembHng  a 
Httle,  found  the  handle  of  her  parasol.  Again  she 
made  as  if  to  go  away  without  greeting  him,  with- 
out turning  round. 

"Are  you  offended?"  he  cried  to  her  back; 
"  you  will  end  by  hating  me." 

**  I  am  not  offended,"  she  replied,  stopping  wath 
lowered  eyes  and  speaking  slowly;  "  I  have  tamed 
my  pride,  Emilio,  in  the  contact  of  life,  and  I  am 
not  offended.     I  can  hate  no  one." 

He  looked  at  her  peculiarly  and  gloomily,  with 
the  strange  insistence  of  a  man  who  wished  to 
extract  a  tremendous  secret  from  a  glance.  But 
she  did  not  see  it.  The  question  which  was 
trembling  on  Emilio's  lips  disappeared.  He 
lapsed  again  into  confusion  and  silence. 

"Are  you  going  to  your  bank?"  she  asked,  to 
say  something. 

"  Yes,  for  a  moment,"  he  replied  absently. 

"  Shall  you  come  home  to  lunch?" 

*'  Yes,  at  the  usual  hour." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  afterwards?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  replied. 

"  I  am  going  to  stay  at  home  just  now,  and 
later "  she  continued  monotonously. 

"  Later?"  he  asked,  with  a  start. 

"  I  have  a  meeting." 


i68  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

'*  Ah  !"  he  replied,  looking  at  her. 

**  With  Flaminia  Colonna;  a  work  of  charity,** 
she  explained,  somewhat  coldly. 

"  Flaminia  has  always  continued  to  love  you.** 

**She  has  continued  to,**  she  answered  bitterly, 
biting  her  lip,  growing  a  little  pale,  "  like  any 
other  friend." 

**  Do  you  go  out  together?'* 

"Yes,**  she  replied,  still  paler;  *' are  you  sur- 
prised?" and  the  question  was  put  harshly. 

**  No,**  he  said,  speaking  with  difficulty,  so  great 
was  his  emotion;  *'  Flaminia  Colonna  is  a  woman 
and  a  friend  .  .  .  while  I *' 

**  While  you?"  she  asked. 

"  I  am  a  man,  a  husband." 

There  was  a  deep  silence  between  them. 

**  Is  that  the  reason  why  you  didn't  go  to  Cecilia 
Metella  with  me?"  she  resumed. 

"  That  is  the  reason,"  he  replied. 

"What  were  you  fearing?"  in  a  voice  still 
deeper. 

"  Ridicule.  Every  one  would  have  laughed  at 
me,  seeing  me  with  you." 

She  fell  back.  Her  eyes  grew  clouded,  but  she 
had  the  strength  not  to  open  her  mouth,  to  walk 
away  without  turning,  leaving  the  man  who  had 
told  his  secret  stretched  on  the  sofa  like  a  miser- 
able weakling. 


XII 


The  ices  were  being  served  and  the  dinner  was 
drawing  to  a  close.  All  of  a  sudden,  in  the  midst 
of  the  slightly  laboured  and  frivolous  conversation 
which  occasionally  gave  place  to  the  species  of 
pompous  gravity,  Francesco  Serlupi,  a  young  man 
celebrated  for  his  blunders,  which  assumed  either  a 
grotesque  or  dramatic  aspect,  again  committed  one 
of  them. 

"  Do  you  know  that  the  Fiore  couple  have 
returned  home  from  their  honeymoon  ?  It  seems 
that  things  are  not  going  too  well.'* 

A  glacial  silence  fell  on  all. 

Maria  Guasco,  behind  the  huge  mass  of  white 
lilies  and  red  roses,  which  almost  hid  her,  had  not 
even  moved  an  eyelid;  Emilio,  taciturn  as  ever, 
had  lowered  his  eyes.  The  other  guests,  Flaminia 
Colonna,  Gianni  Provana,  and  the  Senator,  Fabio 
Guasco,  seemed  distracted. 

"  It  seems  that  the  Costanzi  is  to  be  closed  for  a 
week,"  remarked  Gianni  Provana,  in' an  attempt 
to  change  the  conversation. 

But  Francesco  Serlupi  stuck  to  his  gaucherie^ 
and  proclaimed  obstinately — 

"  However,    it  is  as   I   have  said,    Marco   Fiore 

169 


I70  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

returned  to  the  club  yesterday,  the  day  following 
his  return,  and  yesterday  he  was  at  the  races  with- 
out Vittoria.*' 

Again  a  heavy  silence.  Maria,  with  a  fervid 
glance,  invoked  the  aid  of  Flaminia.  She 
promptly,  with  her  penetrating  voice,  which  was 
the  complement  of  her  dark  and  proud  figure,  and 
of  her  beauty  full  of  grace  and  expression,  said — 

'*  I  am  not  surprised  at  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
Marco  Fiore  has  always  liked  a  club  life;  his 
mother.  Donna  Arduina,  had  always  complained 
to  me  about  it.  Besides,  Vittoria  has  such  a 
reserved  and  timid  character."  She  emphasised 
her  slow  and  tactful  remark,  fixing  her  sweet  grey 
eyes  on  Francesco,  to  make  him  understand  that 
he  must  say  no  more  on  the  subject.  He,  as  usual, 
understood  too  late  the  mischief  he  had  done,  and 
became  silent,  keeping  his  head  bent  over  his  plate, 
not  daring  to  look  at  his  hosts,  anxious  to  escape, 
as  he  always  did,  when  he  discovered  he  had 
committed  an  enormous  indiscretion. 

"  Are  these  delicious  early  peaches  from  Lama, 
Emilio?"  asked  IMario  Colonna,  to  divert  the  con- 
versation better,  alluding  to  the  great  property  of 
Casa  Guasco  near  Terni. 

*'  Yes,"  replied  his  host  immediately,  glad  to  be 
able  to  open  his  mouth  and  speak  of  something 
else;  '*  my  gardens  there  work  miracles,  and  also 
my  gardeners.     Every  day  new  flowers  and  fruit 


THE    PARDON  171 

*'  Oh,  you  must  be  very  happy  about  it,  Maria," 
observed  Flaminia,  with  a  good-natured  smile  on 
her  lips. 

**  Oh,  most  happy,"  she  murmured. 

"You  ought  to  love  La  Lama,  Donna  Maria," 
remarked  Francesco  Serlupi,  in  an  endeavour  to 
mend  matters;  ''it  is  some  time  since  you  were 
there?" 

But  the  question  was  put  in  a  low  voice,  be- 
sides, the  dinner  was  finished,  so  his  hostess  rose 
suddenly  without  replying  to  this  latest  piece  of 
stupidity,  and  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Senator  Fabio 
Guasco  the  other  guests  followed  her,  Flaminia 
Colonna  on  the  arm  of  Emilio,  Gianni  Provana, 
Francesco  Serlupi,  and  Mario  Colonna  in  a 
group. 

**  However  did  it  come  into  your  head?"  said 
Gianni  Provana  to  Serlupi,  keeping  him  back 
a  little  with  Mario  Colonna.  '*  No  one  will  ask 
you  to  dinner,  my  dear  friend,  if  you  start 
breaking  the  dishes  in  your  host's  face  at 
dessert." 

"  You  are  right;  I  am  a  proper  stupid,"  Serlupi 
declared,  as  they  crossed  the  two  or  three  rooms 
before  the  drawing-room,  ''  I  shall  go  away  at 
once;  I  can't  stop  here." 

**  Worse  and  worse,"  observed  Colonna;  **  stop 
a  moment  or  two  longer." 

"You  are  going  away  with  Donna  Flaminia, 
aren't  you?" 


172  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  Yes,  we  can't  possibly  stay.  We  are  going  to 
Madame  Takuhira's  last  reception  at  the  Japanese 
Legation.** 

"  Do  me  a  charity  and  take  me  away  with  you,** 
begged  Serlupi. 

**  Very  well,  very  well,*'  said  Colonna,  laughing, 
*'  we  will  save  you  even  to  the  last  indiscretion.*' 

A  circle  was  formed  in  the  large  drawing-room, 
all  gathering  in  a  corner  of  it  where  Maria  had 
formed  a  little  room  from  the  larger  with  screens, 
large  plants,  and  furniture,  which  cut  off  the  space. 
However,  the  conversation  proceeded  languidly, 
the  sort  of  coldness  which  had  been  there  since 
the  beginning  of  dinner  had  become  accentuated 
after  Francesco  Serlupi's  escapade.  It  was  the 
first  dinner  Emilio  and  Maria  had  given  after  her 
return  home,  thus  resuming  their  old  custom  of 
giving,  during  the  chief  Roman  season  from 
December  to  the  end  of  May,  two  dinners  a  week, 
one  to  intimates,  another  of  ceremony,  the  tradi- 
tional hospitality  in  Casa  Guasco  and  high  Roman 
society.  It  had  been  Flaminia  Colonna  who  had 
urged  her  friend  to  resume  the  habits  of  life  where 
they  had  been  relaxed;  it  h.-xd  been  Flaminia,  too, 
who  had  said  affectionately  to  Emilio  Guasco,  with 
a  sweet  smile,  '*  Give  us  a  dinner  like  you  used 
to.'* 

With  a  feeling  of  concealed  timidity,  Emilio  had 
only  dared  to  invite  persons  of  whom  he  was  sure ; 
his  uncle,  Fabio  Guasco,  the  Colonna  couple,  and 


THE    PARDON  173 

finally  that  silly  Francesco  Serlupi,  who  was  a 
gracious  youth  incapable  of  an  incivility,  but  more 
capable  of  committing  a  disaster  with  a  remark, 
the  importance  of  which  he  did  not  understand 
till  later,  much  later.  Maria,  as  hostess,  had 
endeavoured  to  give  an  air  of  continuity  to  this 
resumption  of  worldly  life,  decorating  her  dining- 
room  as  formerly,  receiving  her  friends  as  formerly 
in  that  bright  and  flowery  corner  of  the  drawing- 
room,  adorning  her  person  wdth  that  studied 
elegance  w^hich  distinguished  her,  and  with  which 
she  satisfied  her  aesthetic  tendencies,  producing 
that  impression  of  sympathy  and  fascination  on 
her  surroundings  which  was  so  appreciated.  That 
evening  she  was  dressed  in  black  voile,  affording 
a  glimpse  of  neck  and  bosom,  white  in  their  per- 
fect lines.  A  cluster  of  fresh  red  roses  was  placed 
at  the  opening,  nestling  on  the  whiteness  of  the 
skin,  and  rendering  it  more  intense.  A  tall,  stiff 
collar  of  small  pearls  in  ten  rows,  with  a  clasp 
in  front  of  rubies  and  diamonds,  surrounded  her 
neck;  the  bodice  of  the  dress  had  half-sleeves 
embroidered  with  black  wavy  tulle,  which  did  not 
reach  to  the  elbow,  and  showed  her  magnificent 
white  round  arms  with  their  delicate  wrists.  Her 
hands  were  loaded  with  rings,  all  in  the  ancient 
style,  and  in  her  hair,  amidst  its  waves  and  dark 
abundance,  were  two  little  bright  red  roses.  A 
quite  interior  exaltation  had  rendered  more  splendid 
her   bright  eyes,    so   often   closed   and   disturbed. 


174  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

That  evening  she  had  experienced  a  sudden  pride 
of  energy  and  beauty. 

But  in  spite  of  this  a  subtle  sense  of  embarrass- 
ment and  pain  weighed  on  the  dinner,  and  all  the 
ordered  luxury  of  the  table,  the  exquisiteness  of 
the  viands,  the  richness  of  the  surroundings,  the 
serenity  of  the  hostess,  and  the  solicitous  courtesy 
of  the  host  had  not  caused  this  impression  to  be 
removed  from  the  mind  of  their  guests.  This 
impression  after  Francesco  Serlupi's  imprudent 
words  became  stronger;  every  one  felt  oppressed, 
and  sought  a  decent  and  amiable  excuse  for  leav- 
ing. Donna  Maria  allowed  smoking  in  her  room 
after  dinner;  but  the  men  discreetly  retired  to  a 
far  corner,  so,  as  they  said,  not  to  fumigate  the  two 
ladies.  For  some  minutes  Maria  and  Flaminia 
Colonna  remained  alone. 

"  What  a  bad  experiment,  eh,  Flaminia,  this 
dinner?"  said  Maria,  with  a  sneer  and  a  bitter 
smile. 

*'  One  wants  much  patience,  immense  patience,'* 
replied  the  friend,  shaking  her  expressive  and 
gracious  Roman  head. 

'*  Oh,  not  for  me,"  added  Maria;  *'  for  myself  I 
am  ready  to  endure  any  pain.  It  displeases  me  on 
Emilio's  account." 

*'  He  suffers,  doesn't  he?"  asked  Flaminia,  in  a 
subdued  voice. 

*'  He  suffers  too  much,"  Maria  assented  sadly. 
Then  she  got  up  suddenly  to  serve  the  coffee  and 


THE    PARDON  175 

liqueurs,  which  had  been  placed  before  her.  Her 
tall,  undulating  person  possessed  a  great  charm, 
as  she  lightly  crossed  the  room,  carrying  a  cup 
in  her  hands,  while  she  offered  it  with  a  smile 
on  her  beautiful  mouth  to  the  men.  She  could  see 
the  admiration  in  all  their  eyes,  and  she  seemed 
to  see  it  mixed  with  confusion  in  her  husband's. 
She  looked  at  him  rather  long,  and  between  them, 
in  those  glances  exchanged,  it  seemed  as  if  a  whole 
world  of  thoughts  and  sentiments  had  passed. 
With  her  rhythmical  step  Maria  returned  to  her 
friend. 

**  Is  it  true  what  has  been  said?'*  she  asked, 
sitting  down. 

''What?" 

'*  That  .  .  .  Marco  and  Vittoria  already  make  a 
couple  of  doubtful  happinesso" 

"  What  does  it  matter  to  you  ?"  replied  Flaminia, 
looking  at  her  with  suspicion. 

"  It  matters  to  me,"  replied  the  other  seriously; 
"  I  wished  for  their  happiness." 

''But  what  do  you  desire?"  said  Flaminia  a 
liltle  diffidently. 

"  I  desire  with  all  my  soul  that  they  may  be 
happy,"  said  Maria. 

The  friend  believed  her,  because  she  recognised 
her  as  a  creature  incapable  of  lies  or  falseness. 

"I  believe  that  your  desire  of  good  for  them 
cannot  be  a  reality." 

'*  Do  you  know  it  then  ?" 


176  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

*'  I  know  it." 

Maria  sighed. 

*'  Later  on,  with  time,"  concluded  Donna 
Flaminia,  with  her  sense  of  justice  and  equilibrium. 

'*  One  wants  such  patience,  immense  patience," 
rejoined  Maria  Guasco  dreamily. 

The  company  began  to  break  up.  Flaminia  and 
Mario  Colonna  had  to  go  to  the  Japanese  Legation. 
Francesco  Serlupi,  silently  occupied  with  his  flight, 
followed  them,  almost  holding  on  to  their  shoul- 
ders, as  if  to  hide  himself.  When  the  Senator 
Fabio  Guasco  took  his  leave  as  well,  accustomed  to 
early  hours,  he  kissed  his  niece's  hand,  bowing 
with  much  gallantry  as  he  begged  her  not  to  for- 
get her  old  uncle  in  her  invitations.  Emilio 
Guasco,  who  had  not  said  a  single  word  since 
dinner,  announced  that  he  was  going  to  accompany 
him.  So  only  Gianni  Provana  remained,  immov- 
able, always  tranquil,  with  his  monocle  fixed  in 
its  orbit.  Quietly  and  tactfully  Maria  made  her 
way  to  her  husband,  and  asked  him  in  a  low 
voice — 

**  Are  you  going  out?" 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  quietly. 

**  Why  are  you  going?" 

*'  To  accompany  uncle." 

"Are  you  returning  soon?" 

•'  I  don't  know." 

*'  Take  away  Gianni  Provana  too,"  she  sug- 
gested. 


THE    PARDON  177 

**  But  why?"  he  asked,  with  a  little  irony;  **  I 
don't  want  you  to  remain  alone." 

"Take  him  away;  take  him  away,"  she  mur- 
mured, troubled  and  nervously. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  him?"  the  husband  asked 
m.ockingly. 

"  No,"  she  replied  proudly,  "  I  am  not  afraid  of 
any  one." 

She  turned  her  back  on  him,  greeting  and  kiss- 
ing her  friend,  giving  her  hand  to  the  men  to  kiss, 
and  to  her  husband  as  well.  Did  not  his  lips  seem 
to  linger  a  little  longer  on  her  hand? 

Gianni  Provana  remained  as  usual,  the  quiet  and 
tenacious  man,  who  allows  nothing  to  disturb  the 
plan  he  has  formed  for  his  existence.  Without 
glancing  at  him,  Maria  threw  herself  into  her 
favourite  arm-chair,  took  a  book  with  uncut  leaves 
from  a  table,  looked  for  a  paper-knife,  and,  having 
found  it,  with  the  peculiar  noise  of  cut  paper, 
occupied  her  beautiful  hands.  • 

"  I  don't  bore  you.  Donna  Maria?" 

"  No,"  she  replied,  without  raising  her  head. 

"  You  would  have  preferred  me  to  go  with  the 
others?" 

"  Perhaps,"  she  replied  absently. 

"  You  can't  bear  me,  isn't  it  so?"  he  asked. 

"You  are  mistaken,  Provana." 

"  Am  I  very  antipathetic  to  you?" 

"  You  are  not  antipathetic  to  me." 

"  At  any  rate  I  am  not  sympathetic?" 

12 


178  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

"Certainly  not,"  she  replied. 

"  Then  indifferent,"  and  he  bit  his  lip. 

"Exactly;  indifferent,"  she  concluded  in  a 
monotonous  voice. 

He  got  up  quickly. 

"  Are  you  going?"  she  asked,  rather  surprised. 

"  For  what  am  I  to  remain  here?  To  hear  this 
from  you  ?  The  worst  you  could  have  told  me  you 
have  told." 

The  face  of  the  worldling  and  pleasure-lover 
expressed  at  that  moment  true  suffering. 

She  looked  at  him, 

"Why  are  you  obstinate,  Provana,"  she  asked 
coldly  and  courteously,  "  in  bothering  about  me, 
of  what  I  think,  of  what  I  say,  of  what  I  do?" 

"  Because  I  am  a  fool,"  he  confessed,  taking  his 
monocle  out  of  its  orbit  and  looking  at  her,  a 
familiar  trick  of  his. 

"  You  are  not  a  fool,"  she  replied,  with  a  little 
smile;  "  you  are  eagerly  anxious  to  get  something 
that  seems  necessary  to  you,  which  would  instead 
be  useless  and  dangerous  to  you,  and  which, 
through  your  good  fortune,  you  will  n«ver 
obtain." 

"  Everything  has  been  said,"  he  murmured, 
offering  her  his  hand,  "good-night,  Donna 
Maria." 

"  Good-night,  Provana." 

She  offered  her  hand.  He  took  it  and  kissed  it, 
holding  it  a  little   in   his  own.      In  spite  of  his 


THE    PARDON  179 

worldly  composure,  in  spite  of  his  mask  of  good 
form,  he  showed  that  he  was  moved. 

'*Can*t  you  really  manage,  Donna  Maria,  to 
consider  me  a  man  worthy  of  some  attention  and 
curiosity?"  he  asked,  with  some  anxiety. 

**  Oh,  I  know  you  well!'*  she  replied,  shaking 
her  head. 

**  You  could  be  wrong." 

**  N©,  I  can't  be  wrong.  For  several  years  you 
have  been  attempting  the  conquest  of  my — atten- 
tion— let  us  call  it  attention — a  question  of  self- 
love.  You  have  possessed  other  women  more 
beautiful,  more  elegant  than  I.  You  are  accus- 
tomed to  succeed,  so  you  are  irritated  and  sad 
because  you  can't  with  me.  You  have  begun  to 
suffer  because  you  can't  succeed  with  me,  and  so 
you  have  got  as  far  as  believing  that  you  are  really 
in  love." 

**  Alas,  it  is  no  supposition  !"  he  replied  melan- 
cholily,  but  with  an  accent  of  truth. 

**  Let  us  not  speak  of  love,"  she  declared;  *' I 
oughtn't  to  listen  any  more  to  such  talk.  My 
greedy  ears  are  satiated  with  it,  they  are  tired  of 
it,  and  have  become  deaf  to  it  for  ever  and  ever." 

**  Nevertheless,  some  one  loves  you  here.  Donna 
Maria." 

**  Whoever?" 

*'Emilio!" 

**  You  are  mistaken,"  she  said  gravely;  **  Emilio 
no  longer  loves  me." 


i8o  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

"  Really?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"Really.*' 

"Is  he  not  an  impassioned  lover,  an  enamoured 
husband,  and  a  tender  friend?'* 

"None  of  these  things,  Provana." 

"What  is  he,  then?" 

"An  enemy  perhaps,"  she  replied  softly. 

"  But  hasn't  he  pardoned  you?" 

"  Fie  has  pardoned  me,  yes.  He  has  pardoned 
me,  but  nothing  more." 

"  I  never  would  have  believed  it,"  he  said 
thoughtfully. 

"Nor  I." 

"But  perhaps,"  he  resumed,  questioning  her 
with  his  glance,  "you  have  frightened  him  and 
kept  him  at  a  distance  with  your  contempt." 

"  I  have  done  all  that  is  possible;  I  am  doing  all 
that  is  possible,"  she  said  vaguely,  as  if  speaking 
to  herself. 

"  You  don't  love  him;  he  will  have  understood." 

"  I  am  humiliated  and  humiliate  myself  every 
day!"  Maria  exclaimed  in  a  sorrowful  voice; 
"and  I  break  my  pride  every  instant  before  him. 
But  I  can't  tell  him  to  love  me;  neither  does  he 
ask  it  of  me.     He  asks  me  nothing." 

"  And  if  he  were  to  ask  it  ?"  he  said. 

"  He  won't;  he  won't.  He  has  understood  1 
can't  lie." 

"  Poor  Emilio  !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Do  you  pity  him  ?    Even  I  pity  him.    He  has 


THE    PARDON  i8i 

had  pity  on  me,  and  I  return  it  to  him.  But 
beyond  this  he  can  do  nothing  for  me,  and  I  can 
do  nothing  for  him.** 

The  conversation  had  suddenly  become  austere. 
The  worldhng  appeared  preoccupied,  the  woman 
with  her  beautiful  hands  crossed  on  her  knees  was 
telHng  her  tale  as  if  in  a  dream.  Gianni  Provana 
looked  two  or  three  times  at  her.  She  was  so 
young  still,  so  flourishing  in  beauty,  with  every 
womanly  grace,  and  he  said  to  her — 

**  Is  it  possible  that  Emilio  has  no  eyes,  no  heart, 
no  feelings,  that  he  doesn't  experience  near  you 
that  invincible  attraction  which  has  made  me 
ridiculous  for  years?" 

*' Who  knows!  Who  knows!**  she  exclaimed 
wearily. 

**  What,  in  fact,  do  you  think  about  your 
life?** 

*'  I  think  nothing,  Provana.  I  live  my  life  as  I 
do  as  a  duty  neither  pleasant  nor  sad.  I  was 
hoping,  and  still  hope,  to  give  consolation  for  the 
undeserving  sorrow  I  have  sown.  Now  I  don*t 
seem  to  be  walking  towards  my  goal.  I  don*t 
seem  to  be  moving.*' 

'*  And  how  if  your  heart  is  elsewhere?**  he  said 
harshly;  "  you  still  love  Marco  Fiore.** 

**  If  I  loved  him  still  I  shouldn't  have  returned," 
she  rejoined  immediately,  firmly.  **  I  often 
think  of  him  with  tenderness  and  sweetness,  but 
without  love.*' 


i82  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

*' Have  you  heard?  He  isn't  happy,'*  he  con- 
tinued tartly. 

**  The  fault  isn't  mine,  nor  is  it  his.  It  is 
impossible  that  either  he  or  I  could  ever  be  happy 
again.     We  knew  it  when  we  separated.** 

"But  Vittoria/it  seems,  is  unhappy  !**  exclaimed 
Provana. 

"  Ah,  that  is  very,  very  sad,"  she  said  thought- 
fully. 

*'  Like  your  husband,  for  that  matter,**  added 
Provana. 

"  It  is  all  immensely  sad,**  she  concluded  bitterly. 

**  The  fault  is  neither  yours  nor  Marco*s,*'  said 
Provana,  with  a  sneer. 

**  You  can  only  smile  or  laugh  at  all  this,**  and 
she  glanced  at  him  with  disdain. 

**  Better  to  smile  or  laugh,  Donna  Maria.  I  am 
an  optimist  in  my  cynicism.  Everything  will 
gradually  and  slowly  settle  dow^n.** 

'*  How?*'  she  asked,  not  without  anxiety. 

"  Vittoria  and  Marco  will  end  by  adapting  them- 
selves to  each  other.  He  will  have  a  son — perhaps 
two  or  three — and  she  will  not  bother  any  more 
about  her  husband.  Marco  will  be  older,  and  a 
monotonous  frequenter  of  the  club,  the  races,  and 
other  noble  pursuits.  Perhaps  he  will  have  a 
mistress  or  two  whom  he  will  not  love,  since  he 
who  has  loved  cannot  love  another  woman  with 
passion." 

"  And  here?**  she  asked,  with  a  mocking  laugh. 


THE    PARDON  183 

*'  Here,  too,  time  will  do  its  work.  Emilio*s 
pardon  will  be,  shall  we  say — active.  He  will  love 
you  tranquilly  and  faithfully  as  formerly,  and  you 
will  again  be  an  exemplary  couple.  Remorse  will 
have  ceased  to  bite  yours  and  Marco's  heart;  you 
may  yet  be  two  beautiful  great  souls.  The  years 
will  be  passed,  and  the  four  of  you  will  even  be 
able  to  see  each  other  tranquilly.'* 

A  strident  and  sardonic  laugh  punctuated  the 
discourse,  while  he  replaced  his  monocle  in  its 
orbit  elegantly. 

**  And  you,  Provana?"  asked  the  woman,  laugh- 
ing, too,  ironically. 

"  Oh,  I !"  he  exclaimed,  with  false  bonhommie ; 
"  I  am  the  man  who  waits.  Vice  versa  in  waiting 
will  come  old  age  and  death.  So  I  shall  pass  to 
my  ancestors  with  a  beautiful  and  ridiculous 
epitaph :  that  of  having  loved  Donna  Maria 
Guasco  uselessly." 

*'  It  is  even  a  big  something  to  be  able  to  love," 
she  remarked  thoughtfully. 

**  That  IS  what  they  say  in  novels  and  dramas; 
in  life  it  is  rather  boring.  Above  everything  the 
man  who  loves  alone  is  the  greatest  bore  of  all. 
Good-night,  Donna  Maria." 

**  Good-night,"  she  said,  without  detaining  him. 

An  uncertain,  melancholy,  bitter  dream  settled 
on  Maria's  soul. 

*****  « 

A  voice  awoke  her  from  this  dream. 


i84  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  Good-evening,   Maria." 

**  Good-evening,  Emilio." 

Her  husband  had  entered  without  her  noticing 
his  step.  He  sat  on  the  seat  which  Provana  had 
left.  It  seemed  to  Maria  that  his  face  had  become 
grave  and  thoughtful.  She  put  down  her  book, 
and  leaned  her  head,  as  if  it  were  too  heavy  for 
her,  on  her  beautiful  hands.  In  the  harmony  of 
her  movements,  her  womanly  grace  and  fascina- 
tion, in  the  silence  of  the  moment,  had  something 
penetrating  about  it. 

*'  Are  you  alone?"  he  asked. 

**  Provana  went  away  a  minute  ago." 

**  I  met  him  near  here,  but  he  didn't  see  me. 
What  fine  tales  has  he  been  telling  you?"  he 
resumed,  with  a  disingenuous  accent. 

*' Nothing  very  fine,"  she  replied. 

*'  However,  you  must  have  listened  to  him  with 
interest." 

**  What  makes  you  think  that?"  she  said, 
trembling. 

'*  I  suppose  it.  The  conversation  has  not  been 
short,  nor  have  you  cut  it  short,"  he  added  a  little 
bitterly. 

**Ah!"  she  exclaimed;  "ought  I  to  show  the 
door  to  your  Provana?" 

**Mine?  Mine?  Isn't  he  your  friend?"  he 
interrupted  with  agitation. 

**No,"  she  replied  precisely,  **  he  is  not  my 
friend." 


THE    PARDON  185 

"  He  makes  love  to  you,  however/'  observed 
Emilio. 

The  tone  was  intended  to  appear  indifferent, 
but  if  Maria  had  listened  carefully  and  had  regarded 
her  husband's  face  better,  she  would  have  under- 
stood that  it  was  a  question,  and  asked  with 
anxiety.  Instead,  she  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and 
let  i't  go  w  ithout  a  reply.     He  repeated  it. 

*'  He  makes  love  to  you,  doesn't  he?" 

*' Yes,  perhaps;  I  believe  so,"  she  murmured, 
letting  her  reply  fall  indifferently. 

*'  He  has  always  made  love  to  you,  hasn't 
he?" 

**  Yes,  he  seems  to  have  alw^ays  done  so,"  she 
replied,  with  the  same  indifference  and  distraction. 

*' And  you?"  he  said,  in  a  sharp,  hard  voice 
which  hurt  her.  Was  he  really  Emilio  who  was 
questioning  her  so  haughtily  like  a  judge?  Up 
to  then  the  conversation  had  seemed  to  Maria  one 
of  those  usual  monotonous  conversations  in  which 
every  one  speaks  and  thinks  quite  differently  to 
what  he  says,  and  the  lips  pronounce  empty  words 
mechanically.  Instead,  she  was  suddenly  aware 
that  her  husband  wished  imperiously  to  know  the 
truth  of  her  heart. 

**I?"  she  replied,  at  once  becoming  sad  and 
proud. 

**  You,  you,"  he  replied,  without  changing  his 
tone. 

**  What  do  you  want  to  know  from  me?" 


i86  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  If  Gianni  Provana's  suit  pleases  you,  if  it  has 
ever  pleased  you,  if  it  will  ever  please  you  ?"  he 
said  coldly  and  cuttingly,  drawing  near  to  her,  and 
looking  at  her  with  eyes  full  of  anger. 

She  stepped  back  a  little,  certainly  not  in  fright, 
but  to  measure  this  new  sentiment  of  Emilio's. 

*' What  does  it  matter  to  you?"  she  asked 
slowly. 

*'  It  matters  to  me,''  he  replied,  without  changing 
either  his  accent  or  the  expression  of  his  face. 

"  Gianni  Provana's  suit  has  never  pleased  me, 
does  not  please  me,  and  never  will  please  me." 

She  pronounced  the  words  slowly,  letting  them 
fall  one  by  one,  fixing  her  husband  wdth  her#eyes. 
She  saw  his  face  change  distinctly,  the  anger 
vanish  which  had  transfigured  him,  and.she  heard 
his  voice  assume  a  lower  tone,  veiled  with  un- 
familiar emotion. 

"Why?"  he  asked;  ''why?" 

"  Because  I  despise  him,"  she  concluded 
honestly,  retiring  again  into  a  definite  silence, 
as  if  she  had  nothing  else  to  say,  or  wished  to  say, 
on  that  subject. 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,  Maria,"  he  whispered, 
drawing  near  her,  his  voice  saddened  -and  a  little 
disturbed. 

She  glanced  at  him. 

**  It  doesn't  matter,"  she  replied. 

**  I  am  certain  I  have  offended  you,"  he  insisted, 
still  troubled. 


THE    PARDON  187 

**  Yes,  a  little,  but  it  doesn't  matter,"  she  added, 
with  some  pride. 

**  I  must  have  seemed  a  little  bit  brutal  to  you, 
Maria,"  he  exclaimed  remorsefully. 

**  A  little,"  she  replied  less  proudly;  **but  it 
doesn't  matter." 

"  Does  nothing  matter  to  you,  then?"  he  asked, 
exasperated  and  sad. 

She  was  silent  and  lowered  her  eyes,  play- 
ing with  her  rings  in  a  way  that  Emilio  remem- 
bered. 

**  Will  you  give  me  your  hand  in  token  of 
peace?"  he  asked,  with  a  false  accent  of  easiness 
and  frivolity. 

*'  Yes,"  she  replied,  giving  him  her  hand. 

**  You  bear  me  no  rancour,  Maria?"  he  con- 
tinued with  the  same  studied  disingenuousness. 

*'No." 

**  So  be  It,"  he  said,  and  he  kissed  the  hand, 
and  afterwards  tried  to  keep  it  in  his.  She  did  not 
raise  her  eyes  to  his,  and  remained  immobile  and 
silent. 

"  Otherwise,"  he  resumed,  as  if  continuing  a 
discourse,  •'  I  find  it  quite  reasonable  ^that  Gianni 
Provana  should  press  his  suit  on  you.  Don't  get 
angry  again,"  he  said,  pressing  the  hand  which 
she  tried  to  withdraw,  '*his  name  annoys  you;  I 
won't  pronounce  it  again.  I  say  finally  that  he 
is  right  to  press  his  suit  on  you." 

She  listened  to  him  silently. 


i88  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

**Why  are  you  so  seducing?"  he  exclaimed 
weakly. 

Was  it  the  deception  of  the  light,  or  did  a  slight 
flush  diffuse  itself  over  his  face  ?  But  why  did  she 
say  nothing  to  the  man  who  was  drawing  his  face 
nearer  to  hers  and  speaking  so  softly?  What 
thought  was  restraining  her?  What  sentiment 
was  conquering  her?  The  man  w^as  still  bending, 
as  if  to  snatch  her  from  her  silence,  to  snatch  a 
word  from  her,  which  would  not  issue  from  the 
tightly  closed  lips. 

**  You  are  not  yet  thirty,  Maria?"  he  asked, 
with  a  sigh. 

**  I  am  twenty-eight,"  she  replied  softly. 

**And  I  am  old  now,"  he  murmured  melan- 
cholily,  pressing  her  still  hand,  "  I  am  so  old  for 
you.     Youth  is  a  beautiful  thing." 

**  Youth  is  a  magnificent  thing,"  she  replied, 
raising  her  voice  w'ith  flashing  eyes. 

The  incantation  was  broken.  Violently  Emilio 
let  go  of  her  hand.  Getting  up  and  withdrawing 
apart  he  strode  through  the  room  two  or  three 
times  gloomily,  almost  blindly  striking  against  the 
furniture.  Sadly  she  looked  at  him,  seeing  him  a 
prey  to  a  sudden  access  of  fury,  and  before  this 
mystery  her  woman's  heart  quailed  anxiously. 

"Emilio!"  she  called  two  or  three  times  with- 
out his  hearing. 

"  Maria,"  he  replied  at  last,  in  a  kind  of  growl, 
without  stopping. 


THE    PARDON  189 

'*  What  is  the  matter?" 
t      '*  Nothing,"  he  repHed,  between  his  teeth. 

Very  gradually  his  violent  perambulations 
amongst  the  furniture  grew  calmer.  He  stopped 
near  a  table  at  a  little  distance  away  and  sat  there. 
Leaning  his  elbows  on  it,  he  hid  his  head  in  his 
hands,  immersed  in  deep  and  terrible  thoughts. 
Thus  the  time  passed,  while  Maria  herself  seemed 
wrapped  in  thought.  At  last  she  seemed  to  make 
a  decision.  She  rose,  crossed  the  room,  and  bend- 
ing over  her  husband,  without  touching  him,  called 
him  again  :    *'  Emilio." 

He  only  started,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Emilio,  my  friend,  reply,"  she  said  softly  and 
insinuatingly. 

*'  What  do  you  want?"  was  the  gloomy  reply. 

'*  I  want  to  know  what  is  disturbing  you." 

**  Nothing  is  disturbing  me." 

**  Why  do  you  lie?  You  are  very  troubled;  tell 
me  what  is  the  matter?" 

**  You  would  laugh  at  me." 

"  I  have  never  laughed  at  any  one,"  she  replied 
patiently. 

**  Who  knows?"  he  said,  looking  at  her  in  mad 
anger,  and  with  the  open  intention  of  offending  her. 

She  stopped,  and  grew  pale.  But  her  moral 
energy  was  too  great. 

"  He  who  laughs  at  the  sufferings  of  another  is 
a  knave  and  a  fool;  you  would  not  consider  me 
perverse  or  stupid,  Emilio?" 


iQO  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

"  I  am  not  suffering,"  he  replied  gloomily, 
rising. 

**  You  are  mistaken,  my  friend.  You  want  to 
deceive  me  or  yourself.  You  have  some  ill  in  your 
soul;   tell  me  what  it  is." 

**  I  have  nothing,  and  I  am  not  suffering,"  he 
replied  gloomily. 

She  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"  Perhaps  I  could  give  you  some  consolation, 
Emilio?" 

**  No." 

**  Every  human  being  who  has  a  feeling  heart, 
and  soul,  can  give  comfort." 

•*  No." 

**  Am  I  not  your  friend,  Emilio?  Have  you  no 
faith  in  your  friend?" 

He  sneered  horribly. 

**  Friend  ?  friend  ?  You  my  friend  ?  You,  you  ? 
I  should  have  faith  in  you?" 

His  laughter  caused  her  to  shudder. 

**  How  you  must  be  suffering,  Emilio,  to  speak 
thus,"  she  said  pityingly,  pressing  her  hands  to 
her  breast.  The  man's  heart  at  such  words,  and 
at  such  a  manifestation  of  pity,  melted.  He  fell 
again  into  his  seat  and  a  sigh  escaped  him. 

*'Oh,  how  I  suffer!" 

An  immense  compassion  transfigured  the  woman. 
She  bent  over  him  and  lightly  touched  his  shoul- 
ders with  her  fingers.  He  trembled  and  raised  his 
face,  and  fixed  her  with  eyes  so  full  of  immense. 


TFIE    PARDON  191 

measureless  sorrow  that  he  seemed  to  Maria  like 
the  living  image  itself  of  anguish. 

"Tell  me  why  you  suffer,  Emilio?"  she  de- 
manded, with  such  emotion  that  his  spasms  seemed 
to  increase. 

"  I  can't !"  he  said  desperately. 

**  Whatever  it  is  you  can  tell  me;  I  can  bear 
it.  Speak,  speak,  Emilio;  don't  be  afraid  of 
offending  me;  don't  be  afraid  of  saddening  me. 
Speak,"  she  said  to  him  affectionately,  at  the 
height  of  her  pity. 

*'  I  can't,  I  can't,"  he  said,  in  cold  desperation. 

*'  My  friend,  don't  be  severe  with  yourself. 
Don't  be  so  implacable  with  your  wounded  heart; 
don't  maltreat  your  wounded  soul.  Be  more 
humane,  more  tender,  more  compassionate  with 
yourself,  my  friend,  or  those  bleeding  wounds  will 
never  close,  and  you  will  never  feel  them  heal. 
You  will  then  sigh  away  all  your  best  blood, 
Emilio." 

**  It  is  true,"  he  murmured,  as  if  to  himself. 

**  Friend,  conquer  your  pride  and  your  amour 
propre.  All  of  us,  all  of  us,  no  one  is  excluded, 
have  suffered,  are  suffering,  and  will  suffer.  It  is 
not  a  shame  or  a  reproach  to  suffer.  'Those  w^ho 
hide  their  pain  proudly  are  not  men,  are  not  Chris- 
tians, and  do  not  feel  the  human  comfort  of 
weeping." 

"That  is  true,"  he  murmured. 

**  Friend,  I  know  the  words  that  caress  sorrow, 


192  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

that  rock  it  and  finally  send  it  to  sleep.  Later  on, 
when  it  awakes  in  us,  it  is  more  tender  and  weaker ; 
it  is  a  much  duller  torment.** 

Like  a  suffering  child,  he  looked  at  her  anxiously. 

**  My  friend,  why  do  you  suffer?**  she  asked, 
leaning  over  him  with  a  face  transfigured  with  the 
grandeur  of  her  loving  charity,  taking  his  hand 
and  caressing  it  like  that  of  a  sick  child  in  pain. 
*'  You  oughtn't  to  suffer.  You  have  been  an  up- 
right and  just  man.  Your  life  has  no  remorses;  it 
was  guided  by  a  moral  conscience,  tranquil  and 
firm.  You  have  not  sinned — that  I  know;  you 
have  caused  sorrow  to  none.  Yours  is  a  life  with- 
out remorse,  and  so  beautiful  that  suffering  ought 
not  to  touch  it.** 

He  looked  at  her  ardently,  almost  drinking  in 
her  words  like  some  divine  liquor. 

'*  You  ought  not  to  suffer.  You  are  no  longer 
alone  in  life;  your  friend  is  near  you,  near  your 
heart,  desiring  one  thing  only,  that  you  may  not 
suffer,  that  you  may  no  longer  feel  lonely,  that 
you  may  possess  a  soul  near  you  and  for  you *' 

He  looked  at  her  passionately,  and  every  one  of 
her  words  seemed  to  intoxicate  him.  She,  too, 
seemed  exhilarated  with  compassion,  tenderness, 
and  devotion. 

**  Emilio,  it  is  your  Maria  who  is  here,**  she  said 
solemnly. 

Then  like  a  madman  he  took  her  in  his  arms, 
pressed   her   madly   to   his   breast   in   a   frenzied 


THE    PARDON  193 

embrace,  and  kissed  her  long,  while  she,  trembling 
and  lost,  closed  her  eyes  as  before  a  mortal  peril. 
But  immediately,  as  if  the  contact  of  her  person 
had  scorched  him,  as  if  the  lips  which  had  not 
given  him  a  kiss  had  scorched  him,  he  pushed 
Maria  brutally  aside,  crying  out  at  her — 

"You  cause  me  horror!" 

**Emilio!"  she  exclaimed,  in  complete  amaze- 
ment. 

'*  Go  away,  go  away.-  You  cause  me  horror  I" 
he  yelled  in  her  face  like  a  madman. 

She  drew  back,  stupefied  and  terrified. 

*' You  have  pardoned  me!"  she  exclaimed. 

**  It  is  true,  it  is  true,"  he  yelled,  **  but  I  can't 
forget.     Go  away,  go  away;  I  can't  forget." 

So  she  went,  bent,  defeated,  and  broken  by  the 
incomparable  weight  of  the  truth. 


It 


XIII 

In  one  of  the  large  reception-rooms  of  Casa 
Nerola,  near  a  bank  formed  of  an  enormous  group 
of  Hortense  roses,  two  young  girls  stand  talking 
and  smiling  discreetly,  slowly  moving  their  little 
white  fans.  The  one,  Theresa  Santacroce,  is 
dressed  in  light  blue,  with  a  silver  belt,  her  hair 
arranged  high  with  a  circlet  of  silver  ivy  leaves. 
The  other,  Stefania  Farnese,  is  dressed  in  ivory 
silk,  and  two  large  red  roses  in  her  chestnut  hair 
give  her  a  Spanish  appearance,  although  her 
beauty  is  delicate. 

**  We  thought  we  were  going  to  be  late  with 
mamma." 

**  Oh,  we  dined  at  seven  on  purpose.** 

"  That  is  why  you  haven't  been  to  the  tea- 
room ?" 

**  Of  course.  Here  it  is  the  same  as  at  Court, 
one  has  to  come  before  the  sovereigns  arrive." 

**  The  most  beautiful  spectacle  is,  naturally,  the 
entry  of  the  Emperor." 

**  Is  it  true  that  all  the  women  are  in  love  with 
him?" 

*'  So  they  say.   As  for  me  I  don't  like  Germans." 

**  O   Stefania,    let   us  be   grateful   to   him.      If 
194 


THE    PARDON  195 

he  hadn't  come  to  Rome  in  December  we  shouldn't 
have  had  the  first  ball  now.'* 

*'  Long  live  the  Kaiser,  then  !  Since  without 
him  we  should  have  had  to  wait  till  the  end  of 
February." 

**  You  are  expecting  Giovanni  Altieri,  aren't 
you,  Stefania?" 

''Giovanni  Altieri!  I  don't  want  to  hear  him 
mentioned.    No  one  is  more  voluble  or  frivolous." 

"Really!" 

*'  Certainly.  Just  think,  he  has  been  in  love  this 
summer  three  or  four  times  with  foreigners — 
American,  Russian,  English.  And  now  the  wretch 
does  nothing  but  speak  badly  of  Italian  girls." 

**  How  all  our  sweethearts  take  away  these 
foreign  women  !" 

**  Let  us  give  them  an  exchange.  Let  us  go 
abroad  with  our  mammas  and  marry  Russian 
princes,  English  dukes  and  American  millionaires." 

"A  good  idea;  but  our  Italians  are  so  sympa- 
thetic. Look  at  Marco  Fiore  over  there;  what  a 
handsome  youth  !  I  would  have  married  him  very 
gladly." 

**  And  you  would  have  done  very  badly." 

-Why?" 

**  Why  ...  do  you  know  nothing?  you  are  too 
simple." 

'*TelI  me  why;  tell  me." 

'*  Another  time.  How  late  it  is,  and  the  ball 
can't  be  opened  till  the  Emperor  comes !" 


196  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  Shall  we  see  a  state  quadrille  danced?*' 

'*  They  say  he  dances  beautifully." 

**  Will  he  dance  with  the  Principessa  di 
Ncrola?" 

"  Naturally.  You  know  she  is  German,  and  a 
mediatised  princess.  That  is  why  she  is  giving 
the  ball  and  the  Emperor  is  coming." 

**  Are  you  engaged  for  the  first  waltz?" 

**Yes,  with  De  Goertz,  of  the  Austrian 
Embassy." 

**  Have  you  begun,  then,  with  the  foreigners?" 

**  Certainly;  and  you  ?" 

**  Oh,  I  am  dancing  with  my  cousin  Rof- 
frcdo." 

Two  old  ladies  are  seated  on  a  sofa  of  antique 
brocade  in  another  of  the  rooms.  Their  age  pro- 
hibits them  from  dancing.  Their  hair  is  white,  their 
faces  are  furrowed  w^ith  wrinkles,  and  their  bodies 
bent  with  senility,  so  they  seldom  leave  their 
patriarchal  homes  except  on  occasions  of  great 
state.  They  are  the  Princess  of  Anticoli  and  the 
Duchess  of  Sutri.  Both  are  dressed  in  sumptuous 
dresses,  trimmed  with  valuable  lace;  the  most 
precious  family  jewels  adorn  their  white  hairs, 
giving  them  a  certain  majesty.  Their  necks,  thin 
with  age,  wear  scintillating  diamond  necklaces,  and 
emeralds  of  old-fashioned  style. 

The  Duchess  of  Sutri  has  magnificent  eyes, 
black  and  vivid,  which  form  a  singular  contrast  to 


THE    PARDON  197 

the  old  age  depicted  in  her  face  and  person.  Both 
their  fans  are  closed  in  their  hands,  now  so  tired 
of  moving  them  after  so  many  years  of  balls  and 
festivities.  They  are  talking  together  slowly, 
watching  with  wandering  eyes  the  elegant  crowd 
which  is  coming  and  going. 

.  *'  It  wanted  an  Emperor,  Lavinia,  to  make  me 
leave  my  home  at  night." 

**  Oh,  in  other  times  I  wouldn't  have  come  here 
at  any  cost;  isn't  he  a  Lutheran?  But  all  that  is 
changed.  My  Fabrizio  has  absolutely  stated  his 
wish  to  enter  the  Italian  army.  How  was  I,  a 
widow,  to  contradict  him  ?  You  understand 
me. 

**  You  have  done  well,  my  poor  Lavinia.  In 
fact,  perhaps  our  sons  and  nephews  are  more  right 
to  accustom  themselves  to  the  new  state  of  things 
than  we  are  to  protest.  Now  I  am  tired  and  sorry 
even  of  the  discussion.  I  look  and  smile;  some- 
times I  even  laugh." 

**  As  for  me,  on  the  other  hand,  so  many  things 
happen  and  cause  my  pity,  Livia.  But  to  whom 
am  I  to  say  it  ?  I  should  offend  people  by  remark- 
ing on  certain  misfortunes  and  losses." 

**  What  magnificence,  do  you  remember,  in  our 
times?" 

**  We  were  all  much  richer  then,  Livia." 

**  What  a  lot  of  us  have  fallen  into  the  most 
terrible  poverty;  it  is  a  real  shame." 

**  Giovanna  della  Marsiliana." 


198  AFTER   THE   PARDON 

**  Poor,  poor  thing !  She  lives  on  her  little 
property  near  Perugia,  just  a  small  house  and  a 
garden,  I  think.'* 

**  Does  she  stay  there  summer  and  winter?*' 

*'  Always  now.** 

**  It  is  a  real  exile  then.'* 

**  But  her  daughter-in-law,  Carolina  della  Mar- 
siliana,  is  here.     I  see  her  over  there.'* 

**  Look,  look,  she  is  wearing  the  Marsiliana 
pearls!** 

'*  Yes,  she  has  rescued  them  from  the  money- 
lender, Labanchi,  for  a  large  sum." 

**  Naturally,  her  father  has  so  many  millions.** 

**  A  wholesale  boot-manufacturer  I  *' 

*'  Yes,  it  seems  he  wants  to  repurchase  the  whole 
of  the  Marsiliana  properties.** 

**  Carolina  is  speaking  with  Arduina  Fiore." 

"  Why  isn't  Arduina  wearing  her  diadem  or 
necklace?" 

**  She  has  given  them  to  her  two  daughters-in- 
law,  Beatrice  and  Vittoria.** 

'*  They  are  fortunate,  those  Casalta  girls." 

"Do  you  think  so?  This  evening  they  are 
wearing  the  jewels  of  Casa  Fiore.  Do  you  notice 
the  two  daughters-in-law  are  following  their 
mother-in-law  side  by  side?** 

'*  Beatrice  is  very  charming.** 

**  The  other  is  insignificant.** 

**  A   little   pale  and   supercilious.     She   do6sn*t 


THE    PARDON  199 

like  society,  I  suppose.  How  long  are  you  stay- 
ing, Lavinia?" 

"  Don't  you  know  we  can't  go  away  till  this 
Emperor  leaves?" 

**  I  knew  his  grandfather  very  well  at  Berlin.'* 

**  And  I  his  father  in  London,  when  he  came  to 
fetch  his  bride,  Victoria." 

**  It  is  useless  to  remind  him  of  that." 

**  Oh  dear,  yes." 

Two  gentlemen  have  withdrawn  from  the  flow  of 
people  to  an  embrasure  of  a  window.  One  is  Carlo 
Savelli,  of  the  great  house  of  Savelli,  tall,  strong 
and  nervous,  looking  as  if  he  had  dismounted 
from  one  of  the  well-limbed  horses  of  the  Cam- 
pagna,  and  had  changed  his  large  round  cow-boy 
cloak  for  the  evening  dress  of  society.  The 
other  is  Guglielmo  Morici,  pale  and  delicate,  of 
the  best  Roman  bourgeoisie,  but  allied  by  busi- 
ness and  relationship  to  the  nobility.  In  the 
conversation  of  each  the  Roman  accent  is  very 
marked. 

'*  When  is  the  meeting  fixed  for?" 

**  For  Saturday  evening,  Guglielmo.  You  are 
going  to  take  part  if  you  can  get  off  ?"- 

**  Yes,  I  can  get  off  for  two  or  three  days,  for 
the  Monday  or  even  till  Tuesday  m6rning." 

*'Good;  we  must  pray  Heaven  that  it  doesn't 
rain!" 


200  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

'*  I  don't  mind  a  little  rain  when  one  is  out 
shooting,  a  little,  but  not  too  much.*' 

"  You  are  right.  We  train  to  Velletri,  thence 
we  drive  for  three  hours  to  Campiglione." 

**  Do  we  get  there  at  midnight?" 

**  Yes,  and  go  to  bed  at  once.  At  six  o'clock 
we  are  off.  Breakfast  is  at  a  place  called  L'^qua 
Morta,  and  at  night  we  sleep  at  Fattino." 

**  How  I  love  these  shooting  trips,  dear  Carlo! 
For  three  days  through  fields  and  woods,  eat- 
ing here  and  there,  sleeping  here  and  there. 
One  could  believe  oneself  far  away  in  Africa  or 
Asia." 

*'  I  swear  to  you,  Guglielmo,  that  everything 
else  is  indifferent  to  me;  I  rave  about  the  chase. 
At  first  it  was  a  hobby,  but  now  it  is  a  passion.'* 

'*  Oh,  I  have  had  it  since  a  boy." 

**  People  who  do  not  understand  it  laugh  at 
us." 

**  Let  them  laugh.     Who  is  coming  with  us?" 

**  The  usual  lot;  Mario  Colonna,  Giovanni  San- 
tacroce,  and  Emilio  Guasco." 

"Splendid;  have  you  fixed  up  everything?" 

"  This  evening  we  must  all  meet  here  to  arrange 
the  time-table." 

'*  Is  Emilio  coming  here  too  this  evening?" 

'*  I  believe  he  is  coming  with  his  wife." 

"  A  beautiful  woman  !" 

**  I  have  always  liked  her.'* 


THE    PARDON  201 

"  You  are  not  the  only  one  who  has  liked  her.'* 

•*  What  are  we  to  do?  It  is  a  misfortune  for  us 
husbands." 

''  However,  they  are  together  again  now — man 
and  wife  !'* 

**  Oh,  Emilio  is  a  splendid  fellow." 

**  I  wouldn't  have  done  it." 

**  So  one  says.  But  then  one  has  to  find  one- 
self in  certain  predicaments.  Watch  if  you  can 
see  them  arriving." 

**  I  see  him;  Mario  Colonna  is  there." 

**  Beckon  to  him  to  look  for  us  after  the  Emperor 
has  entered." 

•*  He  has  winked  *  yes.'  Now  I  see  Emilio 
Guasco." 

*'Is  he  with  his  wife?" 

*'  Yes,  yes.  She  is  more  beautiful  than  ever 
this  evening.  Do  you  know  that  even  I  think 
in  looking  at  her  that  he  was  right  to  have 
pardoned  her." 

**  Have  you  nodded  to  him?" 

**  Yes;  but  I  suppose  he  hasn't  seen  me." 

**  We  will  find  him  as  soon  as  the  Emperor  has 
passed.  At  that  moment  every  one  will  flock  into 
the  ball-room." 

'*  Is  there  to  be  much  dancing  afterwards?" 

**  Certainly,  on  account  of  the  festivities  the  ladies 
have  been  enthusiastic  about  the  Kaiser,  My 
daughter,  Maria,  will  stop  late." 


202  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  I  think  my  wife  must  be  very  late.     She  was 

still  dressing  when  I  went  out.** 

*'  Oh,  these  ladies  and  their  toilette!'' 

"  Oh,   I  leave  mine  every  liberty  of  being  late 

by  setting  out  first.    Thus  there  is  no  quarrelling." 

A  telephone  message  from  the  German  Embassy 
has  warned  the  Principe  di  Nerola  that  the 
Emperor  of  Germany  with  his  suite  has  started  for 
the  Palazzo  di  Nerola.  It  is  half-past  ten.  Court 
ceremonial  ordains  that  the  host  honoured  by  a 
royal  visit,  receives  His  Majesty  in  the  courtyard 
of  his  palace,  at  the  foot  of  the  grand  staircase. 
The  December  evening  is  very  cold.  A  slight 
frost  covers  the  roads.  The  Prince  of  Nerola  is 
already  seventy,  and  the  waiting  in  the  cutting 
night  air  worries  him  secretly,  in  spite  of  the  high 
honour  which  is  coming  to  him  from  the  Imperial 
visit. 

The  Roman  patrician  descends  the  stairs  of  his 
majestic  palace  wrapped  in  a  fur  coat,  with  his 
hat  on  his  head.  His  three  sons,  Don  Marcon- 
tonio,  Don  Camillo,  and  Don  Clemente  follow  him 
at  a  little  distance.  On  every  step  of  the  stair- 
case, on  right  and  left,  are  valets  of  Casa  Nerola 
in  grand  livery.  At  the  foot  of  the  staircase  foot- 
men, with  large  lighted  candelabra,  form  a  circle 
round  the  group  formed  by  the  Prince  and  his 
sons. 


THE    PARDON  203 

The  Nerola  palace,  in  the  via  Santi  Apostoli,  is 
imposing  and  solemn  in  its  exterior  architecture. 
Th€  courtyard  is  immense,  with  a  fountain  in  the 
middle  with  a  green  tiled  circle  round  it.  A 
portico  opens  on  the  four  sides  of  the  courtyard. 
The  internal  architecture  resembles  the  Palazzo 
Borghese. 

Paolo,  fifteenth  Prince  of  Nerola,  is  tall  and 
thin,  with  flowing  white  beard.  His  sons,  be- 
tween twenty-five  and  thirty-five  years  of  age,  all 
resemble  him,  but  their  appearance  is  less  aristo- 
cratic and  proud  than  his.  Some  minutes  pass  in 
silence,  and  suddenly  the  janitor  of  Casa  Nerola, 
a  Colossus  clothed  in  a  livery  resplendent  with 
gold,  strikes  the  asphalt  three  times  w'ith  his  great 
gold-headed  baton,  while  a  dull  noise  of  carriage- 
wheels  reaches  from  the  street. 

At  once,  wuth  youthful  agility,  Don  Paolo  frees 
himself  from  his  cape,  and  remains  in  evening 
dress,  his  breast  covered  with  decorations.  The 
first  imperial  carriage  enters,  containing  the  aides- 
de-camp,  and  stops  in  front  of  the  grand  staircase. 
The  imperial  master  of  ceremonies  and  three 
officials  in  German  uniform  descend.  Salutes  are 
exchanged,  and  all  four  group  themselves  behind 
the  Prince,  in  waiting.  The  second  carriage  enters 
more  slowly,  the  Prince  advances  to  the  door.  The 
Emperor  alights,  and  uncovers  at  once  before  the 
Roman  patrician,  who  bows  profoundly  and  thanks 


204  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

His  Imperial  iMajesty  for  the  honour  he  is  doing  to 
Casa  Nerola.  The  Emperor  smiles  beneath  his 
Hght  moustaches,  curled  up  proudly,  and  the  pro- 
cession is  formed. 

The  footmen  go  slowly  in  front,  holding  the 
magnificent  silver  candelabra,  lit  with  sweet- 
scented  candles.  Behind,  at  a  certain  distance, 
the  Emperor.  On  his  left  the  Prince  walks  a 
little  apart,  and  a  little  behind  him  a  group  is 
formed  by  the  Prince's  sons  and  the  imperial  suite. 
The  procession  mounts  the  stairs  almost  in  silence, 
and  with  great  solemnity.  The  sovereign  is  very 
calm,  and  talks  to  his  host  in  German,  looking 
around  at  the  noble  beauty  of  the  house  he  is  enter- 
ing. Above,  in  the  last  ante-room,  at  the  entrance 
to  the  suite  of  reception-rooms,  the  Princess  of 
Nerola  is  waiting,  born  Princess  Tekla  di  Salm- 
Salm.  Dressed  in  white  brocade,  she  wears  the 
closed  crown  of  a  mediatised  German  princess; 
on  her  bodice  is  pinned  a  German  order,  which 
is  only  given  to  German  ladies  of  high  lineage. 
Her  hair,  which  had  been  of  the  palest  flaxen 
colour,  is  now  quite  white.  She  has  that  opaque 
whiteness  of  colouring,  and  the  rosy  cheeks  of  the 
descendants  of  Arminius.  Though  massive  and 
big-boned,  she  looks  quite  the  great  lady.  Im- 
mediately her  Emperor  appears  at  the  door  she 
goes  towards  him,  and  almost  prostrates  herself  in 
profound  reverence.    Calmly,  and  almost  jokingly, 


THE    PARDON  205 

the  Emperor  takes  her  hand,  kisses  it  gallantly, 
and  gives  her  at  once  her  title:  "Your  Serene 
Highness.'* 

The  orchestra  in  the  ante-room  at  once  broke 
into  the  German  National  Anthem,  in  which  all  the 
ardent  and  mysterious  power  of  the  German  soul 
is  manifested.  The  procession  is  again  formed, 
and  William,  King  and  Emperor,  tall  and  erect  in 
his  uniform  of  a  colonel  of  the  Garde  du  Corps, 
gives  his  arm  to  the  Princess  to  cross  the  rooms, 
glittering  with  light  and  magnificently  decorated 
with  plants  and  flowers,  showing  in  all  their  refulg- 
ence the  ancient  beauty  of  their  sculptural  and 
pictorial  decoration,  in  all  the  richness  of  their 
artistic  furniture,  an  historic  luxury,  so  calm  and 
powerful.  Behind  the  Emperor  and  the  Princess 
come  the  Prince,  his  sons,  and  the  suite.  All  walk 
slowly,  regulating  their  step  to  his.  He  goes 
slowly,  for  he  knows  the  secret  of  these  appear- 
ances, and  speaks  smilingly  to  the  Princess,  look- 
ing around  to  right  and  left  at  the  two  lines  of 
men  and  women  who  bow  profoundly  to  him,  and 
lower  their  eyes,  if  he  fixes  them  with  his  clear, 
flashing  eyes.  It  is  a  double  hedge  of  women 
especially,  in  coloured  and  brilliant  gowns,  in  white 
and  soft  gowns,  with  bare  shoulders  and  arms.  It 
is  a  double  hedge  of  heads — blondes,  brunettes, 
chestnuts,  golden,  white— on  which  feathers  flap, 
on    which    jewelled    stars    and    shining    crescents 


2o6  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

tremble,  on  which  strange  flowers  almost  open  : 
heads  bowed  beneath  the  weight  of  their  thickly- 
dressed  hair,  little  heads  almost  childish  beneath 
the  wavy  aureole  of  golden  locks,  heads  which  bow 
in  a  salute  of  reverence,  of  admiration,  of  mute 
feminine  sympathy,  for  this  Emperor  of  legend,  of 
poesy,  of  ever-renewing  self-will.  He  admires  and 
greets  the  women  with  a  slightly  haughty  smile, 
continuing  his  way.  There  is  not  a  w-ord  or  a 
whisper  as  he  passes,  nothing  except  the  rustling 
of  silk  and  velvet,  or  the  jingling  of  the  sabres 
of  the  suite.  In  this  silence  the  passing  of  the 
Emperor-King  acquires  a  more  impressive  and 
imposing  character. 

Crowded  one  against  the  other,  dame  and  damsel 
had  not  spoken  while  he  appeared  and  while  he 
was  passing,  and  indifferent  to  their  surroundings 
had  only  thought  of  seeing  him  and  being  seen, 
of  greeting  him  and  receiving  his  greeting.  Mixed 
among  them  are  old  men  and  young,  also  intent 
on  bowing  to  the  sovereign.  In  the  famous 
tapestry-room  of  Casa  Nerola,  the  room  before  the 
ball-room,  in  the  great  space  cleared  in  the  middle 
of  it  to  allow  the  Emperor-King  to  pass,  opposite 
but  far  off,  divided  by  the  big  space  and  many 
people,  a  man  and  a  woman  have  recognised  each 
other  with  their  eyes,  and  have  remained  immobile 
and  silent  to  gaze  at  each  other. 
They  are  Maria  Guasco  Simonetti  and  Marco  Fiore. 


THE    PARDON  207 

Since  that  sad  autumn  afternoon  a  year  ago, 
when  they  had  wept  their  last  tears  together  with- 
out either  being  able  to  console  the  other,  taking 
leave  of  each  other  for  ever,  and  burying  their  dead 
dream  of  love,  they  had  never  seen  each  other. 
It  is  a  year  ago  since,  courageously  and  with  broken 
hearts,  they  had  separated,  thinking  in  that  terrible 
moment  that  they  would  never  see  each  other  again 
till  death  or  old  age;  but  so  many  singular  circum- 
stances had  happened  around  them  during  this 
time,  the  change  of  evenis  has  been  great,  and 
their  fate  has  changed  all  its  course  and  aspect. 
Suddenly  and  unexpectedly  on  that  December 
evening,  amidst  sumptuous  and  splendid  surround- 
ings, amidst  flowers,  women,  jewels,  music,  and 
perfumes,  the  two  who  had  lived  their  passion  of 
love  together,  and  had  placed  it  desolately  in  its 
sepulchre,  are  face  to  face,  divided  by  the  crowd; 
but  their  glances,  greedily  and  intensely  attracted, 
seem  as  if  they  never  could  separate.  For  a  long 
moment  Maria  Guasco  and  Marco  Fiore  gaze  at 
each  other.  In  their  eyes  there  is  only  one  beauti- 
ful, simple,  strong  expression,  sadness  free  from 
every  ardour,  sadness  free  of  every  desire ;  sadness 
without  remorse  or  hope;  a  sadness  which  neither 
invokes  nor  offers  help.  It  is  an  incomparable  and 
immeasurable  sadness,  which  can  only  be  sup- 
ported by  lofty  human  strength  in  its  humility  and 
innocence.     Thus  they  look  at  each  other  and  are 


2o8  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

only  sad  for  that  which  was  and  is  no  more,  for 
that  which  can  never  return  to  them,  since  nothing 
which  is  dead  in  the  soul  rises  again. 

Proud  and  smiling  the  Emperor  passes,  and  a 
flock  of  people  crowd  behind  the  suite  and  in- 
creases near  the  door,  to  get  near  him  and  surround 
him.  Marco  and  Maria  are  separated  by  the  great 
crowd.  But  they  do  not  seek  each  other.  Every- 
thing has  been  said  in  one  long  glance,  in  one 
long  moment  of  intimate  understanding. 


XIV 

As  Emilio  Guasco  helped  his  wife  into  her 
opera-cloak,  she  felt  on  her  bare  shoulders  the 
sensation  of  something  scorching.  It  was  her 
husband's  hands  that  had  touched  her.  She  turned 
round  quickly,  never  having  seen  him  so  pale. 
They  were  alone  in  the  armoury  of  Casa  Nerola, 
used  as  a  cloak-room.  No  one  is  leaving,  no  one 
ought  to  be  leaving  at  the  moment  when  the 
festival  is  at  its  brightest,  since  the  Emperor  is 
dancing  in  the  state  quadrille.  But  Emilio  had 
said  to  her,  coming  up  unexpectedly,  in  a  decided 
voice — 

*' Let  us  go.'' 

She  obeyed  at  once.  Two  valets  hastened  to 
help  her,  but  Emilio  took  the  cloak  and  shawl. 
How  hot  the  man's  hands  felt  on  the  woman's 
cold  white  shoulders.  Descending  the  staircase, 
with  a  silent  bow  he  offered  his  arm  to  his  wife, 
and,  almost  as  if  he  feared  to  see  her  fall,  he 
pressed  hers  against  his  as  in  a  vice.  They  said 
not  a  word,  nor  did  they  look  at  each  other.  At 
the  bottom  of  the  stairs  they  waited  while  the 
porter  called  their  carriage. 
14  209 


210  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

Slightly  bending  her  beautiful  head  Maria  entered 
the  coup6  drawn  by  a  pair  of  grey  horses,  and 
the  door  closed  behind  Emilio  with  a  dull  sound. 
Emilio  sat  silently  in  his  corner.  Twice  his  wife 
looked  at  him  in  the  half-light,  and  noticed  that  he 
was  paler  than  she  had  ever  seen  him ;  his  troubled 
eyes  were  brightly  fixed  on  her. 

She  lowered  her  head.  Suddenly  he  sought  her 
gloved  hand  in  the  large  velvet  and  lace  sleeve  of 
her  mantle,  and  pressed  it  so  hard  that  she  gave  a 
cry  of  pain. 

"  Emilio,  you  are  hurting  me !" 

He  threw  the  hand  aside  brutally  and  laughed 
loudly.  They  had  reached  Casa  Guasco.  She 
mounted  the  stairs  rapidly,  a  prey  to  a  singular 
trouble  caused  by  an  unknown  fear,  of  an  unknown 
shame  and  sorrow.  She  did  not  turn  round,  but 
she  heard  her  husband  following  through  the 
different  rooms  to  the  boudoir  which  preceded  her 
own  room,  the  room  whose  threshold  Emilio  had 
never  crossed  since  she  had  returned  home.  In 
that  little  room  they  usually  said  good-night  before 
separating.  She  stopped,  turned  round,  and 
offered  her  hand  to  her  husband. 

**  Good-night,"  she  said,  in  a  feeble  voice. 

He  did  not  reply,  but  looked  at  her  strangely, 
and  preceded  her  into  the  bedroom.  At  the 
threshold  before  entering  she  hesitated,  and  a  femi- 
nine trembling  caused  her  to  vacillate.  However, 
her  pride  and  her  courage  came  to  her  aid  as  she 


THE    PARDON  211 

entered  the  room.  The  man  and  the  woman  stood 
near  to  each  other,  looking  into  each  other's  eyes. 

*' Good-night,  EmiHo,"  she  said  firmly. 

**  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  he  managed  to  say 
with  difficuFty,  in  a  hoarse  voice. 

'*  Very  good,"  she  replied  firmly. 

She  allowed  the  shawl,  mantle,  gloves,  and  purse 
to  be  taken  away  by  Chiara's  deft  fingers,  who 
was  in  the  room  in  attendance  on  her,  almost  feel- 
ing the  gloomy  hour  which  w^as  waiting  for  them. 
All  these  operations  are  done  calmly  and  dexter- 
ously. Quietly  Maria  removed  from  her  head  the 
grand  diadem  of  diamonds,  the  pearl  collar  and 
necklace,  the  bracelets  from  her  arms,  and  poured 
them  into  Chiara's  hands,  saying  quietly — 

*'  You  may  go." 

**  Am  I  to  wait?"  whispered  the  faithful  creature, 
with  a  timid  glance. 

**  No,"  exclaimed  Emilio  suddenly. 

*'  No,"  replied  Maria  quietly. 

With  a  light  step  Chiara  disappeared.  Maria 
sat  down  in  an  arm-chair  in  her  white  ball  dress, 
and  waited  patiently.  Her  husband  stood  before 
her  in  evening  dress,  with  a  flower  in^  his  button- 
hole, but  like  a  corpse  in  the  face,  except  that  his 
eyes  were  shining  with  an  evil  flame. 

**  Maria,"  he  broke  out,  '*  have  you  decided  to 
make  me  commit  a  crime?" 

For  half-an-hour  she  had  understood  that  a 
breath    of    madness    was   crossing    her   husband's 


213  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

senses,  and  she  believed  and  hoped  she  could  con- 
quer this  madness  by  calmness  and  coldness. 

"I  don't  understand  you;  will  you  explain?'* 
she  asked  in  a  harmonious  voice. 

**  Don't  lie  !"  he  cried,  "  don't  lie,  as  you  always 
do  !  You  know  quite  well  what  I  am  saying.  You 
pretend  and  dissimulate.  You  lie,  that's  it;  and 
I  shall  kill  some  one  to  make  you  content." 

*'  Emilio,  Emilio,"  she  murmured  sweetly,  "  you 
are  wronging  me;  but  I  can  stand  the  wrong  since 
I  see  you  are  very  excited.  Calm  yourself,  I  beg 
of  you.  Make  an  effort  over  your  impetuousness ; 
conquer  yourself  and  be  tranquil." 

He  replied  with  a  horrible  laugh. 

*'  Make  an  end  of  it,  Maria,  make  an  end  of 
this  nauseating  cataplasm  of  your  pity  !  Your 
compassion  exasperates  me.  Go  and  use  it  in 
some  hospital.  I  am  sure  you  understand;  and 
I  am  going  to  kill  some  one.  I  am  going  to  kill 
himr 

She  shook  her  head.  Her  sweetness  disappeared 
with  his  laughter,  and  she  became  thoughtful  and 
sad.  He  had  risen,  and  was  w^alking  up  and  down 
the  room  like  a  madman  talking  to  himself. 

**  It  shall  not  be  allowed  for  a  miserable  woman, 
yes,  for  a  miserable  woman,  without  honour  and 
without  heart,  to  make  a  poor  gentleman  unhappy 
and  ridiculous.  An  honourable  man  should  not 
allow  her." 

**  Are  you  speaking  of  me?"  she  asked,  getting 


THE    PARDON  213 

up  at  once  proud  and  erect  before  him,  and  forcing 
him  to  stop  his  mad  perambulations. 

"Exactly;  I  am  speaking  of  you,  dishonour  of 
my  life,  misfortune  of  my  life!"  Emilio  cried  in 
her  face. 

She  bent  a  little  under  the  new  injury,  but  still 
gathered  all  her  strength  not  to  retaliate  or  rebel, 
to  dominate  her  pride,  and  to  use  only  her  good- 
ness and  her  tenderness. 

"Emilio,  Emilio,  you  are  raving!'*  she  ex- 
claimed, with  immense  sadness.    . 

Again  he  burst  into  a  harsh  laugh,  false  and 
stridulous. 

"  So  I  am  a  madman,  am  I?  And  what  are 
you,  Maria?  You  who  lost  your  head  for  three 
years  for  that  waxen-faced  doll,  for  that  languish- 
ing idiot,  for  that  perverse  and  mischievous-souled 
Marco  Fiore?  Oh  yes,  call  me  mad — you,  you, 
who  had  neither  shame  nor  honour  for  three  years  ? 
You  who  are  a  spectacle  for  the  laughter  and  con- 
tempt of  the  whole  of  Rome  for  your  madness; 
and  dare  you  tell  me  that  I  am  raving?" 

"Oh,  Emilio,  Emilio!**  she  exclaimed, 
trembling. 

"  Do  you  deny  it?'  Do  you  deny  it?"  he  yelled, 
almost  stammering,  so  great  was  his  fury. 

She  looked  at  her  husband.  The  great  danger 
she  w^as  in  only  made  her  a  little  paler  and  her  lips 
a  little  drier.     She  kept  silent. 

"Haven't  you  loved  him?"  he  yelled,  coming 


214  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

nearer  to  her,  taking  her  two  hands  and  squeezing 
them  as  in  a  vice. 

She  closed  her  eyes,  as  if  face  to  face  with 
death.  Then  she  opened  them  wide,  and  replied 
simply — 

^'  Yes.*' 

"  Didn't  you  run  away  from  home  for  him,  with 
him?" 

She  tried  to  free  her  hands,  which  were  closed  in 
his,  but  he  did  not  let  go.  Again  with  simplicity, 
with  loyalty,  she  had  the  courage  to  reply  to  the 
furious  man — 

''  Yes." 

"  There  I  there  !  Didn't  you  adore  him  for  three 
years?" 

She  tightened  her  lips,  and  bit  them  to  conquer 
the  pain  of  her  tortured  hands,  and  without  a 
cry  still  replied — 

**  Yes." 

**  And  you  still  love  him;  you'll  always  love 
him!"  he  cried,  and  in  his  anger  this  time  there 
was  mixed  deep  suffering. 

He  let  go  her  hands.  She  fell  back  exhausted, 
but  replied  in  a  clear,  precise  voice — 

*'  I  do  not  love  him." 

**  It  is  false,  it  is  false;   you  still  love  him." 

'*  If  we  had  still  loved  each  other  we  should 
not  have  left  each  other,"  she  declared  without 
hesitation. 


THE    PARDON  215 

**  When  you  returned  to  this  house  to  laugh  at 
me,  to  make  a  fool  of  your  tortured  husband,  you 
were  in  love  with  Marco  Fiore,  and  Marco  Fiore 
was  in  love  with  you." 

**  I  should  not  have  placed  a  foot  in  your  house, 
understand,  if  I  had  still  loved  Marco,"  she  pro- 
claimed, proudly  and  coldly. 

**  Cursed  be  that  evening !  Cursed  be  that 
hour !"  the  man  exclaimed,  mad  with  jealousy  and 
suffering. 

'*  You  called  me  here,"  she  stated. 

**  If  not,  wouldn't  you  have  come?  Wouldn't 
you  have  come,  eh,  woman  without  soul  or  heart?" 

**  I  should  never  have  come,"  she  declared. 

**  You  are  a  monster  of  pride  and  aridness  !"  he 
cried;  but  in  his  voice  sorrow  conquered  anger. 

**  I  have  tamed  my  pride  before  you,  Emilio, 
don't  forget  it,"  she  replied. 

"When?  How?  You  humiliate  yourself? 
You?" 

**  When  I  accepted  the  pardon  you  offered  me. 
I  could  have  refused  it,  but  I  conquered  my  pride. 
I  bowed  and  almost  prostrated  myself  before  you, 
and  you  pardened  me.  Remember  that ;  remember 
that." 

"Cursed  be  those  words;  cursed  the  lips  that 
pronounced  them." 

Maria  stretched  out  her  hand  involuntarily,  as  if 
to  slop  her  husband  from  a  mortal  fall. 


2i6  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  Weren't  you  sincere  at  that  moment?"  she 
asked  in  a  dull  voice. 

*'  I  was  sincere,"  he  replied,  with  a  gulp. 

*'  Did  that  pardon  come  from  the  bottom  of  your 
heart?" 

"  From  the  bottom,  from  the  very  depths  of 
my  heart." 

**  Why  do  you  then  curse  that  moment,  those 
words  and  that  sentiment?" 

**  Because  you  still  love  Marco  Fiore." 

"  No,"  she  replied. 

**You  keep  his  letters." 

*'  That  is  true;  but  I  don't  love  him.  His  letters 
are  sacred,  like  those  of  one  dead,  like  those  of 
one  dear  to  me." 

**  You  love  him;  you  love  him!"  exclaimed 
Emilio,  in  a  monotony  of  desperation;  "  you  keep 
every  gift  of  his." 

**  I  don't  love  him;  but  what  I  have  is  dear  to 
me  as  a  funereal  memory." 

**  You  love  him,  and  he  loves  you.  The  house 
at  Santa  Maria  Maggiore  has  remained  as  it  was. 
It  belongs  to  him  and  you." 

"  But  I  have  never  been  there  again,"  she  replied 
disdainfully. 

**  I  know,  I  know.  I  know  where  you  go.  But 
you  will  go  there  to-morrow  perhaps,  and  he  will 
come  to-morrow.  Oh,  this  evening,  if  I  had  never 
seen  this  evening!" 


THE    PARDON  217 

He  turned,  wringing  his  hands  under  a  pain 
he  could  no  longer  resist. 

*'  I  saw  your  eyes,  Maria;  I  saw  his  when  you 
met  at  Casa  Nerola.  I  saw  all.  And  Vittoria 
Fiore,  the  poor  unfortunate,  saw  you.  She  was 
as  pale  as  death.  This  time,  understand,  I 
can't  endure  the  insult;  I  shall  kill  you  and 
him.  But  endure  this  shame  again — never, 
never !" 

She  made  a  supreme  effort  of  courage,  subduing 
her  indignation,  repressing  it  at  the  back  of  her 
atrociously  offended  mind.  She  remenibered  that 
she  had  returned  home  to  be  good,  to  be  sweet, 
to  restore  peace  and  serenity  there,  to  give  back 
happiness  to  her  husband,  who  had  a  right  to  it, 
to  perform  works  of  tenderness,  even  to  the  silence 
and  death  of  her  own  heart. 

**  Emilio,  Emilio,"  she  said  softly,  ''tell  me 
what  I  am  to  do  to  soften  your  mind  and  pacify 
your  heart.  You  don't  believe  me  to-day,  you 
must  to-morrow.  Tell  me  all.  Shall  we  leave 
Rome  together  for  ever?" 

"No,"  he  replied  gloomily;  "I  should  think 
that  you  wanted  to  fly  from  Marco  Fiore." 

'*  Shall  we  go  for  a  long  voyage  together?'* 

'  *  No ;  you  have  been  everywhere  together,  that 
I  know." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  shut  myself  up  at  home, 
to  see  no  one,  as  if  I  were  dead?" 


2i8  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**No;  I  should  think  you  were  absorbed  in 
memories  of  him." 

**  Well,  would  you  like  us  to  lead  a  society  life 
together,  wild  and  full  of  pleasure?" 

**  No,  no.  We  should  meet  him  every  day, 
every  evening,  and  I  should  commit  a  crime, 
Maria,"  and  the  fixed  idea  returned  to  him. 

She  felt  lost  for  a  moment. 

''Then  what  am  I  to  do?" 

**  There  is  one  only  means,"  he  replied,  drawing 
much  nearer  to  her,  speaking  with  his  hot  breath 
in  her  face. 

''What  is  it?" 

"  To  love  me  as  you  loved  him." 

The  woman  frowned  two  or  three  times  without 
replying. 

"  I  want  to  be  loved  passionately  by  you,  do  you 
understand?  You  must  l©ve  me  with  passion  as 
you  loved  Marco,  as  I  love  you.  Have  you  under- 
stood? No  more  of  this  pale  and  flaccid  affection, 
this  loving  friendship,  which  I  despise  and  which 
exasperates  me  to  frenzy.  It  must  be  passion. 
Have  you  perfectly  understood  me?" 

She  stood  cold  and  rigid  with  staring  eyes;  but 
made  no  reply. 

"  You  want  to  lov«  me,  don*t  you?  I  am  your 
husband,  who  spoke  the  first  words  of  love  to  you, 
who  gave  you  the  first  kiss.  Remember,  remem- 
ber, you  who  want  to  love  me.  You  must  love 
me  as  I  have  loved  you.    Speak;   reply." 


THE    PARDON  219 

She  closed  her  eyes,  and  replied  in  a  choking 
and  desperate  voice — 

*'I  will  try;  I  will  try.'* 

"When?"  and  the  question  is  like  a  dull 
roar. 

"  Later  on,  later  on,"  she  said,  feeling  herself 
lost,  but  unable  to  lie. 

*'  No,  no,"  he  roared.  *'  No,  this  evening,  this 
very  evening,  in  which  you  have  seen  him  again, 
in  which  you  have  looked  at  and  understood  each 
other." 

It  is  late  in  the  night,  Maria  is  alone,  stretched 
in  her  easy-chair,  with  dishevelled  hair,  which 
covers  her  face.  Her  hands  hang  limply  with 
fingers  apart,  and  her  eyes  are  wide  open,  almost 
deprived  of  their  glance.  With  a  supreme  effort 
of  will  she  raised  her  hand  and  touched  the  bell. 
Her  head  fell  back  exhausted.  The  silence  around 
was  intense.  No  one  came,  and  she  had  no 
strength  left.  But  a  little  step  draws  near,  a 
familiar  face  bends  over  her. 

**  I  am  dying,"  she  cries  to  the  faithful  girl. 

Chiara  suddenly  becomes  strong,  lifts  her  in  her 
arms,  holds  her  up,  and  begins  to  take  off  her 
ball  dress,  while  Maria  every  moment  seems  to  be 
fainting. 

"  I  am  dying,"  she  repeats. 

At  last  she  is  free  of  her  gay  garments,  and  the 
faithful  girl  tries  to  make  her  rise,   with  infinite 


220  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

patience  and  tact.  At  last  she  stands  up,  tall,  rigid 
and  pale  as  a  ghost. 

"  I  am  dying !"  she  cries. 

She  grips  Chiara  with  her  hands  for  aid,  totters, 
sways,  and  falls  exhausted  in  the  gloom  and 
silence,  as  if  dead. 


XV 

Donna  Arduina  stopped  in  the  centre  of  the 
large  hall  of  Palazzo  Fiore,  with  its  dark  carved 
wood,  and  red  tapestry  bearing  the  Fiore  arms.  In 
spite  of  her  years  and  life's  troubles  she  still  pre- 
served her  noble  appearance.  Marco  bent  and 
kissed  her  hand  tenderly,  while  she  kissed  him  on 
the  forehead  affectionately. 

"  Good-night,  Marco." 

"  Good-night,  mamma.*' 

Vittoria  had  stopped  two  or  three  paces  behind, 
wrapped  in  a  white  mantle,  trimmed  with  gold,  the 
large  chinchilla  collar  of  which  suited  the  delicacy 
of  her  face  and  slender  figure.  She  had  placed  no 
shawl  on  her  hair,  whose  wavy  gold  was  almost 
oppressed  by  the  weight  of  the  diadem,  which  shone 
brightly  in  the  gloom  of  the  hall.  Her  white  and 
tranquil  face  is  without  expression,  and  her  eyes 
have  a  distant  and  dull  glance.  In  her, hands  she 
held  her  shawl,  and  waited  patiently. 

**  Good-night,  Vittoria,"  said  Donna  Arduina, 
approaching  her  daughter-in-law. 

"  Good-night,  mother,"  she  replied,  stooping  to 
kiss  her  hand.     Then  she  drew  herself  up  naturally 

221 


222  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

and  avoided  the  kiss  on  her  forehead  which  Donna 
Arduina  intended  to  give  her. 

Donna  Arduina  hesitated  a  moment  as  if  she 
wished  to  say  something,  then,  turning  her  back, 
she  walked  slowly  and  imposingly  towards  her  own 
apartments.  Marco  had  already  started  towards 
his,  and  his  wife  followed  him  without  saying  a 
word.  As  they  crossed  the  various  rooms,  Marco 
looked  two  or  three  times  at  Vittoria  as  if  he  wished 
to  question  her  silent,  reserved  face.  She 
appeared,  however,  not  to  notice  his  questioning 
glance.  Thus  they  reached  their  immense  bed- 
room, the  room  occupied  by  the  eldest  sons  of  Casa 
Fiore  and  their  wives  for  more  than  three  hun- 
dred years,  which  modern  taste  and  modern  furni- 
ture had  changed  very  little,  leaving  the  solemnity 
and  austerity  of  the  old  Roman  patrician  houses. 
In  the  majesty  of  her  surroundings,  the  fragile 
woman  seemed  but  a  fantastic  shadow.  She  sat 
down,  but  did  not  take  off  her  cloak,  opening  it  a 
little  as  if  she  felt  warm. 

*' Aren't  you  going  to  call  your  maid?"  Marco 
asked,  taking  the  gardenia  out  of  his  buttonhole, 
as  if  about  to  undress. 

"No,**  she  replied,  "a  little  later.  I  must  say 
something  to  you,  Marco." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows  slightly,  and  jokingly 
sought  to  change  the  tone  of  the  conversation. 

"  We  will  talk  in  bed  if  you  like,  dear.  It  is  an 
excellent  place  for  conversation,  and  I  will  listen 


THE    PARDON  223 

to  you  with  deep  attention  without  going  to 
sleep." 

**  No,"  she  replied  dryly,  **  we  must  talk  as  we 
are." 

"  As  we  are,  dressed  for  society  !  As  we  were  in 
Casa  Nerola?  Very  well,  dear,  but  I  find  the 
Emperor  is  missing.  We  can  telephone  to  him, 
if  you  like,  to  assist  at  this  colloquy?" 

And  he  laughed  mischievously.  How-ever, 
Vittoria  paid  no  attention. 

**  I  want  to  make  a  request  of  you,  Marco." 

*' What  is  it?" 

**  I  want  ten  days'  freedom." 

*' You,  Vittoria?" 

**  I,  yes." 

*'To  do  what?" 

"  I  want  to  make  a  retreat  at  Bambino  Gesi!i  now 
that  Christmas  is  drawing  near,"  she  concluded,  in 
a  low  voice. 

*' A  novena!"  he  exclaimed,  internally  relieved, 
but  not  showing  it;  *'  and  what  prevents  you  from 
doing  it  here?" 

**  It  is  impossible,  Marco.  It  isn't  a  question 
of  prayer  only.  One  must  retire  for  nine  whole 
days  to  a  convent." 

**  To  a  convent?  Are  you  going  to  become  a 
nun  like  Ophelia?" 

**  Why  Ophelia?     What  do  you  mean?" 

*'  Nothing,  nothing.  Go  then  to  your  convent; 
which  one?" 


224  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

**  That  of  the  white  nuns  of  Gesu  Bambino  in 
via  Merulana.** 

"Who  put  such  a  strange  idea  into  your  head, 
Vittoria?  Doesn't  it  seem  a  little  ridiculous  to 
you?'' 

"It  is  neither  ridiculous  nor  strange,"  she 
added,  shaking  her  head;  "other  ladies  go  there 
to  retire  and  pray." 

"  Old  ladies,  I  suppose?" 

"No,"  she  insisted  coldly;  "young  ladies,  and 
beautiful  too;   young  married  women  especially." 

"  Who  are  perhaps  in  mortal  sin.  Are  you  in 
mortal  sin,  though  I  didn't  know  it,  Vittoria?" 
he  laughed  loudly,  looking  at  her. 

"  I  hope  not,"  she  replied,  lowering  her  eyes 
to  hide  a  sudden  flash;  "  but  so  many  people  can 
be  in  mortal  sin,  prayers  are  necessary  for  us  and 
them." 

"Even  for  me,  dear  nun!"  he  exclaimed  mis- 
chievously. 

"  For  you  also,"  she  replied  expressionlessly. 

"  When  must  you  enter?" 

"  To-morrow  evening  at  eight.  To-morrow  is 
the  fifteenth  of  December." 

"  When  do  you  come  out?" 

"  On  the  evening  of  the  twenty-fourth." 

"  Have  you  told  mamma  this?" 

"  No;  please  tell  her  yourself  to-morrow." 

"  Perhaps  mamma  will  not  approve." 

**  She  knows  what  it   is  a  question  of,"   mur- 


THE    PARDON  225 

mured  Vittoria;  "all  Roman  ladies  know  of  this 
retreat  in  the  monastery  of  Gesii  Bambino.  Get 
her  to  tell  you." 

She  blushed  slightly.  He  looked  at  her,  and 
proceeded  more  gently  with  the  conversation. 

**  Are  there  special  prayers  in  this  convent, 
Vittoria?     Are  special  graces  asked  for?" 

"One  grace  only,"  she  replied,  with  down- 
cast eyes;  "one  grace  only  of  the  Divine  Son, 
Marco." 

"Ah!"  he  replied  without  further  remark, 
yj.  understanding. 

"  Do  you  so  very  much  want  to  havft  a  son, 
Vittoria?"  he  asked  in  a  peculiar  tone. 

There  was  a  deep  silence  between  them. 

"  I  desire  it  ardently,"  she  broke  out  suddenly, 
with  an  impetuous  accent,  immediately  recovering 
herself,  "  I  desire  nothing  else  now." 

"  Also  I  want  one  for  you,"  he  said,  vaguely  and 
absently. 

"Not  for  yourself?"  was  the  sharp  question. 
But  he  did  not  heed  the  intense  expression. 

"  As  for  myself,  you  understand,  my  brother 
Giulio  has  three  sons.  The  house  of  Fiore  has 
descendants." 

"  Beatrice  has  been  fortunate,"  she  murmured, 
with  a  sigh. 

"There,  there;  you,  too,  will  be  fortunate,"  he 
resumed  jokingly  and  laughingly;  "you  will  have 
a  quiverful  of  sons,  too  many,  I  tell  you,  dear 
15 


226  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

Vittoria,  for  many  sons  will  give  you  much  worry. 
Don't  doubt;  you  are  not  sterile." 

**  Who  knows,"  she  said,  with  a  sorrowful 
shudder. 

'*  Go  to  your  convent,  di^ar,  since  you  are  set 
on  it,"  he  said,  laughing;  '*  the  Bambino  Gesii 
will  content  you,  and  when  you  return  home  He 
will  send  you  the  little  one." 

He  drew  near  her  to  kiss  and  embrace  her. 
With  a  cold  gesture  she  repulsed  him. 

**  Hoighty,  toighty!  Hoighty  toighty!"  he 
exclaimed;  '*  why  all  this  rudeness  to  your  lawfulti 
husband,  Don  Marco  Fiore?"  He  tried  again 
to  draw  her  to  himself  and  kiss  her.  Again  still 
more  coldly  and  hostilely  she  kept  him  at  a 
distance. 

**  What  do  you  want?"  he  asked. 

'*  We  must  live  from  to-day  in  prayer  and  morti- 
fication," she  replied  in  glacial  tones. 

"Therefore?"  he  asked. 

*' You  resume  from  to-night  your  bachelor  bed- 
room." 

**Ah;  and  am  I  to  keep  it  for  ten  days?"  he 
said  drily. 

**  Yes,  for  ten  days,  till  my  return." 

**  Brava  !  Brava  !  And  if  I  am  bored  in  there 
all  alone?"  he  continued,  with  signs  of  annoyance. 

**  Oh,  you  won't  bore  yourself  there!"  she 
replied,  with  a  slightly  bitter  smile. 

He   remembered  that   in   that   room  everything 


THE    PARDON  227 

had  remained  untouched  since  he  had  married,  that 
it  was  full  of  portraits,  big  and  small,  of  Maria 
Guasco,  with  recollections  of  their  dead  dream, 
their  dead  love.  He  understood  more  than  ever  the 
depth  of  his  wife's  thoughts  and  feelings;  he  real- 
ised her  intense  pain.  So  he  tried  again  in  pity 
and  tenderness  to  make  her  speak,  to  make  her 
weep. 

"  Vittoria,  Vittoria!"  he  exclaimed  in  sad 
reproach,  "you  as  usual  are  dissimulating  and 
lying,  and  that  makes  you  suffer  and  becomes  un- 
fair to  me.  I  don't  want  to  be  angry,  and  you 
should  not  suffer." 

**  You  are  mistaken,"  she  .  replied  coldly, 
*'  neither  do  I  suffer  nor  need  you  be  angry.  My 
confessor  has  told  me  that  the  scope  of  matrimony 
is  not  love  but  children,  that  one  must  ask  Heaven 
for  children,  and  pray  very  much.  I  am  going  to 
pray." 

**  Ah  !"  he  said,  suddenly  becoming  cold,  '*  you 
are  convinced  that  the  scope  of  matrimony  is  not 
love?" 

"  Quite  convinced,"  she  answered  harshly. 

"  All  the  worse,"  he  exclaimed  in  a  bad  temper; 
**  all  the  worse;  and  when  did  you  decide  to  enter 
the  convent  for  the  novena?" 

The  question  was  direct  and  sharp.  She  hesi- 
tated to  reply, 

**  When,  Vittoria?     Think  and  tell  the  truth." 

**This  evening,"  she  replied,  with  an  effort. 


228  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  This  evening?  At  the  ball?"  he  insisted,  still 
more  sharply. 

*'  This  evening  at  the  ball,"  she  assented,  grow- 
ing very  pale. 

But  pity,  sentiment  without  strength,  was  already 
extinguished  in  Marco's  heart,  and  there  was  sub- 
stituted, as  in  every  heart  unjustly  suspected,  a 
dull  and  cruel  indignation.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  took  his  fur  coat  and  hat,  and  left  with 
a  dry,  *'  Good-night,  Vittoria." 

She  had  no  strength  to  reply.  With  difficulty 
she  closed  the  door  of  her  big  room  where  she  was 
alone,  desperately  alone.  She  dared  not  weep,  for 
fear  that  he  might  return  and  find  her  weeping, 
for  fear  that,  not  being  very  far  away,  he  might 
hear  her  weeping. 


XVI 

Maria  Guasco  wrote  thus  to  Marco  Fiore — 

**  Marco,  this  sudden  and  unexpected  letter  will 
not  surprise  you.  You  know  already  that  it  is  not 
a  love  letter,  because  our  souls  united  and  under- 
stood themselves  too  intimately  in  that  past  which 
can  never  return,  and  they  were  too  much  agreed 
in  feeling  the  irremediable  end  of  their  love  for  a 
sentimental  misunderstanding  ever  again  to  happen 
between  us.  If  anybody  else,  a  stranger,  were  to 
lean  over  my  shoulder,  and  read  the  first  word 
written,  he  would  at  once  have  no  other  thought 
but  this  :  *  See,  it  was  natural,  she  is  writing  to 
her  lover,  she  has  never  ceased  to  love  him,*  Let 
it  be  so.  Not  a  short  time  has  passed  since  we 
separated  freely  and  voluntarily,  overcome  by 
anguish,  but  stronger  than  anguish  itself,  since  the 
reason  for  our  ardent  and  free  union  was  at  an  end. 
Since  it  is  now  May  it  is  nearly  two  years  ago.  It 
is  a  year  >ince  you  married  Vittoria,  when,  placing 
her  little  hand  in  yours,  she  will  certainly  have 
pardoned  your  long  infidelity  and  desertion. 
Well,  my  friend,  no  one  about  me  believes  that  I 

have  ceased   loving  you   with   passion,    not  even 

229 


230  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

those  who  know  me  well,  such,  for  instance,  as  a 
faithful  friend  like  Flaminia  Colonna,  not  even 
a  would-be  lover  like  Gianni  Provana,  to  give 
another  instance.  No  one,  and  especially  my 
husband,  Emilio  Guasco;  he  does  not  believe,  can't 
believe,  never  will  believe  that  I  have  ceased  to 
love  you  passionately. 

'*  This  is  the  cross  that  I  have  been  carrying  for 
a  year,  at  first  with  energy  and  Christian  courage, 
sustained  by  a  burning  desire  for  expiation,  by  a 
burning  desire  to  repair  the  horrible  suffering  in- 
flicted on  others,  to  heal  all  the  deep  evil  inflicted 
on  others,  and  in  fact  with  the  great  and  lofty  hope 
of  giving  all  the  happiness  possible  to  the  man 
who  deserved  it.  Marco,  how  happily  I  embraced 
my  cross  at  first,  and  how  I  suffered  with  humility 
and  simplicity,  like  a  child  that  feels  it  deserves 
all  its  punishment,  or  some  self-effacing  creature 
who  performs  every  deep  act  of  contrition  !  You 
know  my  pride,  Marco;  you  know  that  it  has 
always  been  my  weapon  of  defence  and  attack  in 
this  war  of  life ;  you  know  that  my  pride  has  taken 
the  place  of  many  virtues  and  that,  as  it  was  per- 
haps too  great  and  imperious,  it  formed  also  the 
source  of  all  my  sorrows.  Well,  Marco,  I  swear  it, 
and  I  know  you  believe  me,  that  I  have  every  day 
thrown  this  pride  at  my  husband's  feet,  and  my 
heart  has  been  prostrated  in  an  almost  continual 
prayer  for  pardon.  To  accomplish  what  I  had  set 
myself  for  you,  to  accomplish  all  my  vow  of  repara- 


THE    PARDON  231 

tion  I  suffered  so  joyfully,  but  so  bravely.  At 
every  fresh  sting  I  did  not  bind  the  bleeding  point, 
and  from  every  new  wound  I  let  my  blood  gush 
forth,  glad  to  suffer,  glad  to  expiate,  glad  to  be 
able  by  my  secret  and  open  sufferings  to  unfold  and 
complete  all  my  expiation,  rejoicing  to  reach  the 
goal  of  being  a  consolation  to  Emilio,  of  being, 
as  of  yore,  the  giver  of  his  happiness.  I  have  been 
intoxicated  with  the  sacrifice,  Marco,  but  now  my 
intoxication  has  vanished.  Alas,  my  friend,  I  see 
and  know  that  it  has  been  useless  !  My  repentance 
has  been  in  vain,  and  so  have  been  all  my  acts  of 
contrition,  and  the  lowering  of  my  pride.  In  vain, 
too,  has  been  my  desire  to  do  good.  Emilio  is 
unhappier  than  ever,  and  I  alone  am  the  cause  of 
his  unhappiness.  It  is  impossible  for  me,  I  swear, 
to  make  him  happy  even  if  I  lived  a  hundred  years, 
even  if  I  died  to-morrow.  In  life  or  death  I  can 
do  nothing  more  for  him — nothing,  nothing. 

**  Listen,  Marco,  and  see  if  it  be  not  all  irrepar- 
able. I  didn't  understand  at  once,  because  I  was 
infatuated  with  my  fine  hopes  and  desires  of  doing 
good;  but  now  I  know^  that  all  is  irreparable.  Do 
you  know  how  long  my  husband's  pardon  lasted? 
The  fraction  of  an  April  evening  in  which  he 
pronounced  the  sacred  words  which  should  absolve, 
cancel,  and  redeem.  Immediately  afterwards  he 
despised  himself  and  me,  and  the  act  of  pardon 
seemed  to  him  one  of  hypocrisy  and  lying  humilia- 
tion.     Later,    when   in   one  of  our   more   furious 


232  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

crises,  on  reminding  him  that  a  Christian  pardon 
is  an  act  of  renewed  esteem,  that  Christian  pardon 
should  destroy  the  sin  and  purify  the  sinner,  and 
that  such  an  one  should  be  loved  as  a  new  soul, 
he  replied  brutally :  *  Exactly ;  but  Jesus  who 
founded  pardon  was  not  married  to  an  adulteress.' 
What  am  I  to  say  to  him.,  Marco  ?  The  man  loves 
me,  longs  for  me,  but  at  the  same  time  he  hates 
me.  Never  for  an  instant,  understand,  can  he  for- 
get that  I  betrayed  and  abandoned  him,  and  that 
for  three  years  I  was  yours.  He  spies  on  me  and 
makes  me  spy.  He  scrutinises  every  glance,  he 
watches  every  action  of  mine.  If  I  speak  to  him 
he  doesn't  believe  me;  if  I  am  kind  he  refuses  my 
kindness.  If  my  pity  breaks  out  he  understands 
at  once,  like  all  morbid  hearts,  that  it  is  a  question 
of  pity  and  not  of  love,  and  he  rejects  my  pity. 
He  wrongs  me  and  you  with  vituperation,  and  asks 
me  to  love  him  with  passion  as  I  loved  you.  But 
I  can't  lie;  I  can't,  I  can't.  I  have  never  lied, 
and  if  I  were  to  do  so  for  a  minute  to  save  him 
and  myself  he  wouldn't  believe  me.  What  am  I 
to  say ;  what  am  I  to  do,  Marco  ?  I  have  said  all ; 
I  have  endured  everything,  and  I  don't  want  to — 
I  can't — add  anything  else,  my  friend.  I  can't 
write  everything;  my  mind  refuses  to  raise  certain 
veils  of  shame.  Let  us  leave  it,  let  us  leave  it. 
My  cross  is  so  heavy  on  my  shoulders  that  I  am 
on  the  ground  and  breathless.  What  shall  I  say  ? 
What  shall  I  do?     Hasn't  all  my  repentance  been 


THE    PARDON  233 

useless?  Hasn't  all  my  dedication  been  useless? 
And  useless  every  abnegation  ?  Whatever  shall  I 
do  to-night?  Whatever  to-morrow?  The  man 
whom  I  have  returned  to  comfort  is,  as  far  as  I 
am  concerned,  in  a  state  of  sorrow  and  implacable 
agitation;  this  man  whom  I  imagined  so  ingenu- 
ously and  sweetly  to  make  happy  again,  in  spite  of 
my  sufferings,  is  still,  and  always  will  be,  unhappy. 
After  a  terrible  year,  Marco,  after  a  year  of  every 
experiment  and  attempt,  in  which  I  have  consumed 
my  will  and  weakened  my  energy,  after  a  year  in 
which  I  have  seen  all  the  good  which  was  accumu- 
lated in  my  generous  mind  miserably  dispersed,  and 
day  by  day  the  sacred  trust  of  doing  good  dissi- 
pated, I  cry  to  you  in  my  sadness  and  impotence, 
in  my  weariness  and  discouragement.  I  ask  you 
whatever  I  shall  do,  Marco,  with  myself  and  my 
life,  since  it  is  of  no  further  use  but  for  evil  ?  What 
shall  I  do  with  myself,  inept  for  good,  inept  to 
give  joy,  and  so  involuntarily  and  fatally  capable 
of  evil  ? 

**  I  am  so  lonely,  Marco.  When  he  is  here  he 
regards  mc  with  desire  and  anger.  Both  senti- 
ments crucify  and  torture  me,  but  I  daren't  re- 
press or  combat  either  sentiment.  I  have  become 
what  I  never  was,  a  creature  without  will  or  object, 
a  passive  and  resigned  creature — I  !  I  !  think, 
Maria  Guasco,  a  creature  of  resignation  !  Often 
he  avoids  me  for  days  together,  and  I  don*t  know 
what  to  do  with  my  dried-up  and  deserted  exist- 


234  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

ence.  I  do  nothing,  never,  because  I  fear  that  all 
may  be  for  the  worse,  even  when  he  ignores  me 
— ignores  me!  Sometimes  he  leaves  Rome  and 
goes  away  for  two  or  three  days,  for  a  week.  I 
don't  know  where— in  his  distrust  he  won't  say.  I 
don't  know  when  he  returns,  as  he  doesn't  wish  it 
to  be  known.  He  enters  suddenly  and  looks  for 
me,  as  if  he  must  always  find  me  in  sin,  and  I  am 
always  paralysed  just  as  if  my  nerves  had  been 
cut,  just  as  if  a  single  gesture  of  mine  may  be 
an  offence,  or  the  pretext  of  an  offence  to  him. 

"I  am  so  lonely,  so  lonely. 

"In  this  Casa  Guasco,  in  this  Rome,  in  this 
world,  Marco,  I  am  more  lonely  than  ever  woman 
was,  and  I  cry  to  you,  not  as  a  lover,  not  even 
as  a  friend,  but  as  a  soul  which  was  once  mine 
while  mine  was  yours,  I  cry  out  my  impotence, 
anguish,  and  mortal  solitude. 

''  Marco,  I  am  afraid  of  myself:  I  know  myself. 
If  the  hand  even  of  an  enemy  is  stretched  towards 
me  with  the  impetus  of  unexpected  sympathy,  my 
soul  at  once  trembles  with  emotion  and  opens  its 
inviolate  doors,  and  abandons  itself  with  tenderness 
and  enthusiasm.  If  a  person  who  loves  me  ill- 
treats  me  or  offends  me  it  is  impossible  for  me 
not  to  rebel ;  all  my  pride  invests  me  wonderfully 
and  magically  with  a  steel  cuirass,  and  I  feel  I  love 
no  longer,  and  I  disdain  the  love  of  the  other  one  who  , 
knows  not  how  to  love.  I  am  capable  of  breaking 
a  heart,  two  hearts,  my  own  and  the  other's,  with 


THE   PARDON  235 

a  violence  which  nothing  can  stop.  You  know  me. 
You  conquered  me  with  your  youthful  grace,  with 
your  sincere  passion  mixed  with  gentle  languor, 
which  conquers  the  proudest  and  most  reserved 
souls.  Never  once  did  you  offend  me,  never  once, 
perfect  friend  and  perfect  lover,  pleasant  and  sweet 
to  dream  of  and  remember.  In  those  three  years, 
passed  together,  my  simple  and  impetuous 
character,  so  sincere  and  yet  inflammable,  found 
every  sentimental  delight.  Our  short  life  was 
beautiful,  beautiful  with  unspeakable  harmony,  and 
we  could  separate  full  of  sorrow,  but  still  without 
anger  or  a  single  bitter  thought  of  each  other. 

**  Marco,  this  unfortunate  man  for  whom  I  re- 
turned a  year  ago,  to  heal  of  all  the  poison  he  had 
absorbed  on  my  account,  not  only  is  he  more 
poisoned  than  at  first,  but  he  vents  all  his  revenge 
on  me  by  a  love  composed  of  suspicion,  contempt, 
sensuality,  and  jealousy.  This  man  who  seemed 
to  me  a  hero,  and  was  one  for  a  single  moment 
when  he  pronounced  the  words  of  pardon,  this  hero 
whom  I  had  poetised  proudly  in  my  mind,  and  who 
deserved  the  lofty  place  of  poesy  for  a  brief 
moment,  when  he  pronounced  the  words  of  pardon, 
is  no  longer  a  betrayed  lover  who  must  be  made  to 
forget  the  betrayal  by  lavished  caresses,  is  no 
longer  an  offended  husband  whose  pardon  is  asked 
and  given,  with  whom  a  new,  loyal,  and  lasting 
peace  is  re-established.     No,  he  is  now  an  enemy, 


236  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

who  now  loves  and  now  hates,  who  now  wants  you 
and  now  spurns  you,  who  adores  you  by  day  and 
execrates  you  by  night,  who  would  keep  you 
eternally  pressed  to  himself  and  who  flies  from  you, 
v.'ho  thinks  you  capable  of  every  black  action,  and 
makes  you  understand  his  suspicions,  and  declares 
them.  Emilio  Guasco  is  an  enemy  to  me,  Maria,  an 
enemy  whose  name  I  bear,  whose  fortune  I  share ; 
an  enemy  in  whose  love  I  live,  an  enemy  who  now 
keeps  me  because  I  have  returned^  an  enemy  who 
doesn't  wish  to  see  me  dead  because  he  would  kill 
himself  on  my  tomb,  who  wants  me  to  be  alive 
with  him  and  for  him,  to  torture  me  and  himself. 

**  O  Marco,  Marco,  how  terrified  I  have  been 
lest  all  the  good  with  which  my  heart  is  filled  be 
at  an  end  I  how  deeply  I  feel  that  my  kindness 
which  is  not  superhuman,  since  I  am  a  woman  and 
not  an  angel,  will  dissolve  like  a  cloud,  and  I  may 
become  a  naked  rock,  sharp  and  fierce  of  aspect — 
a  rock  ! 

**  Marco,  if  he  doesn't  calm  himself  and  stop,  if 
he  doesn't  become  more  humane,  kinder,  more 
generous;  if  he  doesn't  become  the  man  of  pardon 
and  not  him  of  after  the  pardon^  that  is  sad  and 
contemptuous  for  having  pardoned,  how  shall  I 
pour  the  balsam  over  him  which  ought  to  restore 
him  to  health,  the  jar  of  which  is  perhaps  already 
empty  and  wobbling  in  my  hand?  Marco,  if  he 
doesn't  restore  to  me  his  esteem,  his  trust  and  his 


THE    PARDON  237 

friendship,  unless  he  is  affectionate  and  magnanim- 
ous with  me,  how  shall  I  be  able  to  improve  and 
exalt  his  life?  What  shall  I  do  here  if  he  con- 
tinues to  be  an  enemy  who  loves  me?  O  Marco, 
I  tremble  to  the  very  roots  of  my  soul,  even  to  the 
most  mysterious  essence  of  my  spirit,  lest  all 
my  mission  of  peace,  beauty,  and  affection  can 
never  be  accomplished,  and  lest  all  my  rebellious 
heart  may  revolt  against  the  enemy  who  loves  me. 
Marco,  what  will  become  of  me  to-morrow,  a  week 

hence,  a  year  hence  ? 

**  Maria." 

At  the  same  time  Marco  wrote  to  Maria — 

**  Maria,  my  delight,  do  you  know  that  there  has 
not  been  a  single  day  since  that  fatal  and  tragic 
one  on  which  we  left  each  other,  that  I  have  ceased 
to  think  of  you,  far  away  or  near,  deeply  separated 
from  me  by  the  depth  of  our  divine  dream  of  love, 
separated  for  ever  since  we  wished  it  to  be  so,  but 
always  present  to  my  spirit,  which  reflects  itself 
in  you  as  in  the  coolest  and  most  crystal  mountain 
stream  ?  I  have  thought  of  you,  Maria,  as  a  dear 
mother,  as  a  sister,  as  a  friend,  as  a  womanly 
creature  who  has  been  and  is  most  dear  to  me, 
wherever  I  have  found  myself,  whatever  the  idle 
words  which  left  my  mouth,  whatever  my  careless 
deeds,  however  intense  my  silence  and  immobility. 
I   thought  of  you   then,   soul  of  beauty,   without 


238  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

ardour  or  desire,  because  that  flame  which  was  so 
devouring  is  extinguished  in  me  as  in  you,  but  I 
have  thought  of  you  with  sweet  and  melancholy 
moral  sympathy,  without  jealousy,  without  bitter- 
ness, without  gall,  without  any  of  the  dregs  which 
passion  leaves  in  the  heart,  but  with  a  measured 
and  calm  recollection,  as  for  a  memory  which  will 
be  ever  dear.  I  have  never  sought  you ;  I  have 
never  thought  of  seeking  you  :  I  have  never  avoided 
you  or  wished  to  avoid  you,  nor  have  I  written  to 
you.  Only  your  place  has  been,  and  is  within  me, 
high,  unshakable,  strong,  and  you  are  like  a 
mother,  a  sister,  a  friend,  the  inspirer  of  my 
thoughts  and  sentiments.  From  the  high  extin- 
guished pyre  a  slender  warmth  of  life  prevents  my 
heart  from  getting  cold;  a  thin  light,  that  which 
they  say  remains  after  a  star  is  dead  in  the  firma- 
ment, seems  to  guide  me  in  my  unstable  and 
uncertain  way. 

"  But  at  last,  after  such  a  long  silence,  Maria, 
on  the  anniversary  of  my  marriage,  since  you  are 
always  a  source  of  warmth  and  light  to  me,  and 
since  you  can  still  give  me  light  and  tell  me  what 
is  necessary,  I  am  writing  to  you  and  am  breaking 
this  division  of  time,  of  place,  of  persons  which 
seemed  inseparable  between  us,  and  I  have  come  to 
implore  help  as  formerly,  as  yesterday,  as  to- 
morrow, as  always.  I  come  to  ask  moral  help  of 
you,  because  you  were  always  my  conscience,  even 
when  we  broke  together  the  ties  of  society  and 


THE    PARDON  239 

laws,  since  you  taught  me  nobly  the  way  of  liberty 
and  truth,  even  in  that  which  the  world  calls  a 
mistake  and  the  Faith  a  mortal  sin,  but  which  we 
called,  and  shall  call,  by  a  single  word — Love — 
whatever  it  may  be,  from  wherever  it  may  come  to 
us,  wherever  it  may  drag  us.  Maria,  you  who  in  the 
supreme  hour  of  farewell,  when  I  wept  upon  your 
hand  the  most  burning  tears  of  my  life,  you  who 
showed  me  what  to  do  with  my  existence ;  you  who 
reminded  me  of  a  great  duty  to  be  accomplished; 
you  who  spoke  no  more  to  me  of  happiness,  no 
longer  possible  for  me  from  the  moment  that  our 
love  was  ended,  but  of  that  which  I  could  still  give 
to  a  human  creature;  you  who  exalted  for  me  this 
duty  even  to  making  it  appear  adorned  with  every 
attraction  :  Maria,  to-day  you  must  tell  me,  if  you 
know,  if  you  will,  what  is  necessaryy  since  I  no 
longer  know. 

*'  Maria,  the  bridal  veil  which  the  young  woman 
wore  a  year  ago  in  the  church  of  Santa  Maria  del 
Popolo,  when  she  knelt  near  me  and  the  priest 
pronounced  over  our  heads  and  joined  hands  the 
words  which  bind  us  till  death,  that  soft  veil  which 
should  be  raised  after  the  wedding  to  show  me 
openly  and  loyally  the  face  of  my  lady,  'where  may 
be  mirrored  all  her  soul,  which  perhaps  possesses 
concealed  the  most  precious  spiritual  and  senti- 
mental treasures — but  however  light  it  was,  neither 
my  hands  nor  my  kisses  succeeded  in  rarefying  its 
aerial   woof — Vittoria   has    never  once   desired  to 


240  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

liberate  her  face  from  it.  I  have  always  felt  this  veil, 
between  me  and  her,  no  longer  a  bridal  veil  but 
a  veil  of  life,  in  which  she  enveloped  herself  in  the 
first  vivid  days  of  our  marriage ;  and  as  time  passed 
— and  sometimes  its  course  seemed  very  slow  to 
me^ — it  became  closer  and  denser  even  to  hiding 
my  lady  completely,  and  as  time  still  went  on  its 
course  more  slowly  than  ever,  I  felt  that  this  veil 
had  become  a  seamless,  opaque  texture,  in  which 
she  is  enclosed  for  ever.  Maria,  Maria,  all  the 
solemn  words  of  that  last  hour  in  which  you  en- 
joined me  to  assign  this  deep  and  great  object  to 
my  life,  this  of  offering  happiness  without  equal 
to  a  woman  who  had  suffered  for  me,  I  never  for- 
get, when  I  am  with  Vittoria,  for  an  instant ;  and  in 
spite  of  the  unspeakable  weariness  of  my  soul,  in 
spite  of  that  mortal  aridness  which  succeeds  to  great 
passion,  in  spite  of  my  hidden  distrust  of  myself, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  doubted  deeply  of  my 
success,  I  have  always  endeavoured  that  Vittoria, 
my  wife,  should  be  happy.  Dear,  dear  Maria,  if 
only  you  knew  how  often  I  have  invoked  you  as 
light,  and  heat,  and  guide,  so  as  not  to  lose  my- 
self or  falter  on  the  way  !  How  often  I  have  called 
on  you,  my  conscience,  to  continue  my  duty  I  Well, 
Maria,  you  and  I  have  been  deceived.  Or  perhaps 
you  were  deceived,  beautiful  and  magnificent  soul, 
in  thinking  that  that  was  the  necessary  thing,  or 
very  likely  it  is  Vittoria  who  has  deceived  you,  me^ 
and  all  of  us. 


THE    PARDON  241 

**  This  creature  is  unable  to  be  happy  on  my 
account,  perhaps  she  is  unable  to  be  happy  on  any 
account.  She  is  a  soul  incapable  of  happiness. 
Such  souls,  Maria,  are  to  be  met  with.  Heaven 
has  sent  them  thus  on  the  earth  to  live  a  peculiar, 
cold,  sad  existence,  without  joy,  without  hope  and 
without  desires ;  they  are  souls  incapable  of  reaching 
that  extreme  joy,  even  for  a  second,  which  is  called 
happiness ;  and  probably  the  others  only  have  it  for 
a  single  minute,  but  they  do  reach  it  and  possess 
it,  and  through  it  feel  themselves  children  of  God, 
near  to  Him,  near  to  His  throne  of  splendour  and 
glory.  This  moment  you  and  I  have  possessed, 
Maria;  but  we  were  born  to  possess  it.  Vittoria, 
my  wife,  is  unable  to  touch  this  height.  Her 
hands  are  as  white  as  her  face  and  garments,  they 
are  as  cold  as  her  forehead  and  her  heart.  Her  life, 
too,  is  white,  cold,  and  immobile. 

**  O  my  conscience,  secure  and  firm,  do  you  know 
I  have  managed  to  extract  from  Vittoria  her  secret. 
Do  you  know  that  her  secret  is  terror  of  you,  terror 
of  what  you  have  been  in  my  life,  which  has  been 
painted  fantastically  for  her — simple,  innocent  girl 
— as  something  horrible  and  tremendous.  Her 
childish  secret  as  betrothed,  bride,  and' wife,  was 
this  ferocious  terror  that  I  might  belong  to  you 
as  a  lover  for  ever,  that  through  the  mysterious 
reasons  of  passion  you  would  always  keep  me,  and 
that  from  one  day  to  another  I  could  again  belong 
to  you  through  the  impetuous  and  imperious 
16 


242  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

reasons  of  desire.  By  pressing  her  cold  white 
hands  I  communicated  a  flame  of  Hfe  to  her,  by 
fixing  my  eyes  on  hers  I  placed  a  gleam  in  those 
two  bright  eyes,  and  then  I  learnt  her  secret.  Hers 
is  a  soul  sick  with  this  terror.  On  your  account, 
my  lofty  pure  conscience,  on  my  own,  since  I  am 
pledged  to  follow  every  wash  of  yours,  I  have  word 
for  word,  act  for  act,  tried  to  destroy  in  her  this 
morbid  terror  of  you;  and  believe  me,  believe  me 
in  everything,  any  other  woman  would  be  con- 
vinced that  her  terror  was  in  vain,  would  have 
given  me  all  her  heart  and  soul  for  recognition, 
affection,  love.  But  the  more  I  demonstrated  to 
her  that  the  bonds  of  passion  were  undone  through 
your  will  and  mine,  the  denser  became  the  veil 
which  surrounded  her.  Whatever  was  she  want- 
ing, whatever  w^as  she  asking,  for  her  existence 
as  a  woman  and  a  wife;  whatever  w^as  existence 
able  to  give  her;  more  than  the  affectionate  and 
tender  companionship  of  a  man  like  me,  dedicated 
entirely  to  her,  who  desired  nothing  more  than  to 
see  her  smile  in  her  juvenile  happiness,  and  himself 
to  be  the  only  origin  of  that  smile  and  that  joy? 
Maria,  my  wife  has  smiled  five  or  six  times  in  one 
year  of  matrimony,  and  hasn't  laughed  once.  Ah, 
I  have  tried  to  tear  the  closely  knit  and  invisible 
texture  in  which  she  is  clothed  even  because  of  this, 
and  I  have  asked  her  whatever  she  could  wish 
from  me  beyond  this  certainty  that  I  am  no  longer 
yours,  whatever  else  she  could  expect  from  a  man, 


THE    PARDON  243 

a  companion  and  a  husband  beyond  this  great  and 
absolute  dedication  to  her  happiness  which  should 
be  sufficient  for  any  woman.  She  lowered  her  eye- 
lids, closed  her  little  mouth  as  usual,  all  her  face 
became  as  marble.  Oh,  if  only  once  to  see  that 
white  marble  face  flesh  ! — and  she  replied — 
"  I  expect  nothing  and  I  wish  nothing." 
**  Maria,  the  limpid  truth  is  that  Vittoria  can't, 
won't,  and  doesn't  know  how  to  become  happy 
with  me,  because  of  her  sentimental  ineptitude,  and 
it  has  all  been  a  generous  mistake  of  ours.  With 
her  I  am  sad,  tired,  and  bored.  Oh,  how  I  bore 
myself,  I  can't  tell  you,  Maria !  On  some  days  a 
mad  rage  comes  over  me  against  this  immense 
boredom.  Why  did  I  marry  the  girl?  Why  did 
I  give  myself  this  duty  of  a  husband  and  com- 
panion, which  I  have  tried  and  am  trying  to 
accomplish — so  badly  it  seems,  both  for  her  and 
me?  Why  did  I  swear  to  Heaven  to  make  this 
woman  happy,  when  I  am  not  able  to  keep  the  oath, 
though  I  want  to?  Perhaps  she  would  have  been 
happy  with  another.  Why  dicl  I  bring  her  my 
wasted  heart  ?  Why  have  I  offered  her  a  life  where 
love's  harvest  is  gathered,  and  the  earth  which  had 
produced  too  violently  has  been  left  fruitless? 
Why  have  I  given  her  a  soul  which  has  done  with 
love?  Maria,  Maria,  we  made  a  mistake  on  that 
last  day;  our  souls  did  not  understand  the  truth 
which  is  within  us  and  not  without.  We  have  seen 
and  understood  nothing  beyond  ourselves.    Vittoria 


244  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

did  not  ask  for  a  husband  but  a  lover,  a  lover  like 
Maria  Guasco  had;  she  did  not  ask  for  happiness 
but  passion.  You  knew,  Maria,  that  that  was  im- 
possible, and  I  knew  it.  Now  I  really  begin  to 
fear  that  I  have  torn  the  veil  for  ever  which  encloses 
Vittoria's  soul  and  person,  and  that  I  know  all 
about  her,  and  that  I  can  do  nothing  now — never, 
never. 

**  Marco.'' 

In  reply  to  her  letter  Maria  received  this  from 
Marco — 

**  Maria,  good  and  brave,  make  an  appeal  to  all 
your  goodness  and  strength.  They  are  great, 
immense;  you  can't  measure  them,  but  I  can. 
With  your  goodness  and  strength  strive  to  conquer 
Emilio,  the  enemy  who  loves  you.  Make  a  friend 
of  him.     That  is  the  best  way:  do  it. 

*•  Marco.'* 

In  reply  to  his  letter  Marco  received  this  from 
Maria — 

*'  Marco,  try  to  love  Vittoria.  That  is  all.  Try 
to  love  her. 

**  Maria." 

For  SL  long  time  neither  heard  from  the  other. 


PART    III 
USQUE   AD   MORTEM 


TuEFragolata  ^  was  the  last  festivity  of  the  season, 
and,  on  account  of  the  originality  and  grace  of  the 
occasion  and  the  charm  of  the  late  Roman  April, 
many  strangers  had  delayed  their  departure  after 
even  a  very  late  Holy  Week.  Since  the  middle 
of  March,  in  the  first  languors  of  a  spring  laden 
with  delicate  perfumes,  there  had  been  daily  gaie- 
ties in  gardens  and  the  shady  majestic  parks,  which 
still  surround  the  Roman  villas.  The  poesy  of  such 
re-unions,  in  the  soft,  clear  afternoon  hours  in  the 
avenues,  when  light  steps  have  a  seducing  rustle; 
in  the  broad  meadows,  covered  in  emerald  green, 
which  slope  towards  the  wooded  distance,  when  the 
ladies'  bright  dresses  in  the  background  make  them 
appear  like  nymphs; — this  penetrating  poesy 
tempts  every  soul,  even  the  most  barren  of  feeling, 
and  the  least  susceptible  to  visions  of  beauty. 

In  various  ways  Roman  society,  by  fancy-dress 

balls,  theatricals,  kermesses,  had  called  on  public 

^  Strawberry  feast. 
245 


246  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

charity,  Italian  and  foreign,  to  help  in  works  of 
well-doing  for  so  much  of  the  suffering  which 
society  sees,  feels,  and,  grieving  for  and  seeing, 
tries  every  fashionable  and  crafty  means  to  alleviate. 
In  short,  the  idea  had  been  hit  on  to  close  the 
season  .with  a  fragolata  at  the  Villa  Borghese  on 
behalf  of  the  foundlings.  The  suggestion  ran 
swiftly  from  the  Court  to  the  embassies,  from  the 
tea-roonis  to  the  big  hotels,  from  the  most  select 
patrician  clubs  to  the  sport  clubs ;  and  people,  tired 
of  balls  in  over-heated  rooms,  of  shutting  them- 
selves up  in  theatres,  people  fond  of  new  sensa- 
tions, learnt  at  first  with  a  curiosity  and  later  with 
impatience  that  a  fragolata  was  being  arranged  at 
Villa  Borghese,  and  that  the  most  fascinating 
dames  and  damsels  would  sell  the  strawberries. 
Later,  it  was  known  that,  as  well  as  baskets  of 
strawberries,  there  would  be  sold  roses,  since  April 
was  entering  into  May,  and  lovers  of  strawberries 
are  lovers  of  roses.  So  the  discussion  was  great 
at  the  last  receptions  and  teas.  The  young  men 
shrugged  their  shoulders  with  a  pretence  at  being 
bored  at  another  charity  festivity.  Some  declared 
that  they  could  not  stand  strawberries,  some  hated 
roses,  and  some  declared  that  they  were  leaving 
before  the  fragolata^  while  others  added  maliciously 
that  they  would  procure  a  false  telegram  to  absent 
themselves.  But  the  ladies  laughed,  shaking  their 
heads,  knowing  that  all  their  friends  and  lovers 
would    come    that    afternoon    under    the    majestic 


USQUE    AD   MORTEM  247 

trees  of  the  Villa  Borghese  to  take  from  their  white 
hands  a  leaf-full  of  strawberries  or  a  bunch  of 
fragrant  roses.  They  only  were  afraid  of  bad 
weather — the  protectors  of  abandoned  infancy — but 
not  of  the  hardness  and  indifference  of  the  human 
heart  before  everything  that  was  attractive  and 
pleasant ;  strawberries,  roses,  women,  at  a  beautiful 
time  in  lovely  surroundings. 

Nor  was  the  sun's  smile  wanting  on  that  day 
for  the  fragolata;  a  sun  not  too  hot,  a  light  not  too 
strong,  a  sky  not  of  an  intense,  but  a  light  blue, 
occasionally  traversed  and  rendered  whiter  by  a 
slow  soft'  cloud,  melting  towards  an  unknown 
horizon  where  all  clouds  go  one  never  sees  again. 
On  that  day  the  Villa  Borghese  was  not  open  to  the 
public,  and  on  its  broad,  undulating  paths,  around 
its  thick  woods  and  spreading  lawns,  around  its 
fountains  spouting  and  singing  their  lively  and 
crystalline  measure,  around  its  temples  and  little 
casine,  with  all  the  windows  closed  as  if  no  one 
had  lived  there  for  years,  one  heard  no  more  the 
dull  and  irritating  rumbling  of  a  hundred  hired 
carriages,  which  passed  there  five  times  a  week,  full 
of  unknow^n  faces  where  often  one  reads  idiocy  and 
perversion,  or  often  one  wants  to  read  it,  in  the 
profound  irritation  of  seeing  the  Villa  Borghese, 
the  sanctuary  of  beauty  and  poesy,  violated  by 
strangers. 

Towards  four  o'clock  the  carriages  kept  on  in- 
creasing.    The  troop  of  ladies  dressed  in  white,  in 


248  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

stuffs  of  spring-like  softness,  of  young  girls  in 
summerish  muslin,  in  straw  hats  covered  with 
flowers,  became  thicker,  and  at  that  moment  the 
ftagolata  presented  an  enchanting  appearance. 
Under  the  wooded  plateau  of  the  Piazza  di  Siena, 
amidst  thick  groups  of  tall  trees,  with  their  shining, 
almost  metallic,  verdure,  and  yet  transparent  with 
the  softness  of  May,  a  large  counter  had  been 
placed,  on  whose  white  cloth  bunches  of  roses 
and  baskets  of  strawberries,  most  graceful  rustic 
baskets,  covered  with  favours  and  ribbons  of  soft 
colours,  and  all  sorts  of  strawberries,  big  and  small, 
were  placed  on  broad  fresh  leaves.  Behind  the 
stall  were  five  or  six  ladies,  Donna  Flaminia 
Colonna,  Margherita  Savelli,  the  Princess  della 
Marsiliana,  Countess  Maria  Santacroce,  and 
Maria  Guasco,  whose  care  was  the  sale  of  the 
baskets. 

Other  ladies,  especially  the  young  ladies,  carried 
around  baskets  of  the  early  strawberries  come  from 
the  mountain  and  the  garden,  offering  them  to  the 
groups  which  kept  forming  little  by  little  in  increas- 
ing numbers.  These  amateur  saleswomen  are 
nearly  all  beautiful.  There  are  Donna  Teresa 
Santacroce,  the  liveliest  and  most  seductive  of 
Roman  society  girls;  Miss  Jenkins,  an  English 
girl,  who  seemed  to  have  escaped  from  one  of 
Lawrence's  pictures;  Mademoiselle  de  Klapken,  an 
irresistible  Hungarian,  and  Stefania  Farnese,  with 
her  white  complexion,  chestnut  hair,  smiling  eyes 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  249 

and  mouth,  dressed  in  white  like  a  Grecian 
Erigone. 

Amidst  the  trees,  scattered  everywhere,  are  little 
tables  covered  with  the  whitest  cloths,  sprinkled 
with  rose-leaves,  and  seats  for  the  people  to  sit 
and  taste  the  strawberries,  while  ladies  offer  milk, 
cream,  and  sugar.  Little  conversations  take  place 
politely  without  hurry  or  bustle,  just  as  at  a  pro- 
menade or  a  dance,  and  the  groups  round  the 
stall  and  the  charming  assistants  around  the  little 
tables,  which  are  gradually  filled,  form  a  phan- 
tasmagoria of  colours  which  is  renewed  every 
moment,  and  assumes  the  most  unexpected  and 
delightful  aspects  for  appreciative  eyes. 

The  little  tables  are  now  all  taken,  and  the 
luscious  fruit  bathed  in  cream  and  covered  with 
sugar  moisten  beautiful  lips.  The  men  even  yield 
to  the  seductions  of  the  fine,  fresh  food.  Every- 
where baskets  are  offered  and  taken,  and  the  fruit 
is  poured  into  the  plates  and  saucers.  The  girls 
offer  roses,  and  roses  are  in  every  lady's  hands  and 
in  every  lady's  waist.  Bunches  of  roses  are  on 
every  table,  and  every  man  has  a  rose  in  his  button- 
hole. Several  foreign  ladies,  lovers  of  flowers, 
have  their  arms  laden  with  them.  One  French- 
woman has  filled  her  parasol  w^ith  them ;  an  English 
girl  of  eighteen  has  placed  a  cluster  of  the  freshest 
white  roses  under  the  rim  of  her  straw  hat  and 
is  the  picture  of  happy  youth. 

Nevertheless,    Maria    Guasco,    at   her   place   as 


250  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

patroness  behind  the  stall,  bends  her  head  of  mag- 
nificent waving  hair,  beneath  a  large  white  hat 
with  white  feathers,  and  her  thoughtful  face  over 
a  large  bundle  of  red  roses,  of  intoxicating  frag- 
rance, which  Stefania  Farnese,  the  gay  Erigone, 
had  just  given  her.  Her  face  is  hidden  among  the 
red  roses  w  hose  perfume  she  has  always  loved ;  that 
perfume,  rich  with  every  memory,  gives  her  a  silent 
emotion  which  fills  her  eyes  for  a  moment  with 
tears. 

'*  What  is  the  matter?"  said  Flaminia  to  Maria. 

"Nothing,"  she  said,  biting  a  rose-leaf. 

"You  are  tired?" 

"Yes,  a  little." 

"  To-morrow  you  will  rest." 

"And  what  shall  I  do  after  I  have  rested?" 
Maria  asked,  anxiously  and  sadly. 

Flaminia  did  not  reply,  and  an  expression  of 
pain  was  diffused  over  her  beautiful,  good-natured 
face.  But  again  people  throng  round  the  frago- 
lata  stall  and  buy  strawberries,  and  Donna  Mar- 
gherita  Savelli,  quite  blonde  beneath  her  hat  of 
white  marguerites,  gathers  the  money  into  a  purse 
of  antique  cloth  of  peculiar  make,  now  quite  full, 
whose  silver  strings  she  cannot  tie. 

"  See,  see,  Flaminia,  what  a  lot  of  money !"  she 
cried  joyfully. 

Gianni  Provana,  who  had  been  walking  round 
for  about  an  hour  and  had  approached  all  the  little 
tables  a  little  superciliously  and  proudly,  without 


USQUE    AD   MORTEM  251 

sitting  by  any  one,  came  and  leaned  over  the  stall, 
exchanging  a  word  first  with  one  and  then  with 
another  of  the  lady  patronesses,  always  cold  and 
composed,  with  his  monocle  in  its  place  and  a 
slightly  mocking  smile  on  his  mouth.  He  had  no 
rose  in  his  buttonhole,  and  his  eyes  every  now  and 
then  settled  on  those  which  Maria  was  smelling 
long  and  silently. 

**  Well,  Provana,*'  said  Flaminia  Colonna^ 
**  haven't  you  tasted  the  strawberries?" 

**  Not  one,  I  assure  you.  I  don't  want  to  ruin 
my  health." 

**  What  a  wretch  you  are  !  Don't  you  like  straw-, 
berries?" 

**They  don't  agree  with  me.  Donna  Flaminia. 
I  am  getting  old,  and  my  digestion  isn't  so  good." 

**  Are  you  in  a  bad  temper,  Provana?"  Maria 
asked  indifferently. 

'*  Very,  Donna  Maria,  and  you  too,  I  think?" 

**  Oh,  I  !"  she  said,  with  a  nonchalant  gesture. 

**  Still,"  resumed  Flaminia,  to  change  the  con- 
versation, "you  haven't  given  a  penny,  heartless 
man,  to  abandoned  infancy." 

'*  Not  a  penny.     I  don't  like  babies." 

**  What  a  wretch  !  Heaven  will  punish  you. 
You  will  die  tyrannised  over  by  your  house- 
keeper." 

"  Certainly,  Donna  Flaminia.  But  I  have  still 
something  to  do  before  dying,"  he  added  enig- 
matically, looking  at  Maria. 


252  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**What?"  asked  Flaminia. 

*'  Not  to  buy  your  strawberries,  which  ruin  every 
one's  skin,  but  to  pay  for  a  basket  to  please  you." 
'  He  extracts  from  his  purse  a  note  for  a  hundred 
francs,  giving  it  to  the  beautiful  treasurer,  Mar- 
gherita  Savelli,  who  gives  a  cry  of  joy. 

'*  O  Flaminia,  how  kind  this  sham  knave 
Provana  is  !** 

"Most  kind,"  Flaminia  replied,  and  she  gives 
him  her  hand,  which  he  touches  with  his  lips 
gallantly. 

Other  people  1:rowd  round  the  stall,  and  Provana 
talks  softly  with  Maria  Guasco.  She  replies  with- 
out looking  at  him,  as  if  wrapt  in  her  own  deep, 
dominating  thoughts,  which  are  marked  from  eye- 
brow to  eyebrow. 

"  Are  you,  too,  interested  in  foundlings.  Donna 
Maria?"  he  asked. 

''  Yes,  very,"  she  replied  vaguely. 

'*  Well,  will  you  give  me  one  of  those  red  roses, 
only  one?" 

The  request  is  made  with  seeming  disingenuous- 
ness,  but  she  understood  that  the  man  was  waiting 
for  the  reply  attentively.  The  woman  was  silent, 
and  smelled  her  roses. 

'*  I  will  pay  whatever  price  you  like — for  the 
foundlings,"  he  murmured  suggestively. 

"  Why  do  you  value  it  so?"  she  asked,  looking 
at  him. 

"  Because  it  is  yours;  because  it  has  been  in  your 


USQUE    AD   MORTEM  253 

hands,  because  you  have  put  it  near  your  face, 
and  have  placed  it  to  your  lips." 

The  voice  is  lower  and  the  expression  more 
ardent.  The  woman  had  never  heard  the  like  from 
him  before.  She  looked  at  him  with  melancholy 
curiosity,  but  free  from  anger. 

"  Maria,  give  me  the  rose,"  and  he  attempted  to 
take  it  gently  from  the  bunch. 

Maria  drew  back  and  looked  at  him,  protecting 
her  flowers. 

**  For  whom,  then,  do  you  wish  to  keep  the  roses. 
Donna  Maria?"  he  asked,  half  bitterly  and 
ironically. 

**  I  don't  know;  I  don't  know,"  she  replied, 
trembling. 

**  If  you  don't  give  me  one,  to  whom  will  you, 
Donna  Maria?" 

She  let  the  roses  fall  and  scatter  on  the  table,  all 
her  face  was  disturbed  with  sudden  pallor.  Gianni 
Provana  quietly  took  a  rose  which  she  had  not 
given  him — which  he  had  gained  in  spite  of  her; 
but,  instead  of  placing  it  in  his  buttonhole,  he 
placed  it  with  care  in  the  inside  pocket  of  his  coat. 

*'  Next  to  the  heart,"  he  whispered. 

A  short,  strident  laugh  was  Maria's  only  reply. 

"How  badly  you  .laugh,  Donna  Maria!"  he 
exclaimed,  a  little  irritated. 

**  Like  you,"  she  replied  quietly. 

**  Come  from  behind  the  stall  and  let  us  take 
a  walk  together?"  he  asked. 


254  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

His  tone  remained  simple  and  disingenuous,  but 
within  there  was  a  dull  agitation,  which  the  man 
restrained  with  difficulty. 

"  No,"  she  refused  drily. 

"And  why?  Aren^t  you  bored  there?  Don't 
you  see  that  every  one  is  walking?'* 

"Yes:  sweethearts  with  their  lovers;  girls  with 
their  flirts;  wantons  with  their  courtiers.  We 
belong  to  none  of  these  classes." 

'^  Helas!^*  he  exclaimed  in  French,  to  hide  his 
bitterness,  and  took  out  his  eye-glass  and  looked 
at  her. 

"  Won't  you  come  then  ?  The  avenues  are  most 
beautiful,  and  it  is  a  lovely  sunset." 

She  laughed  again,  with  a  mocking,  malicious 
laugh. 

He  looked  at  her. 

"  I  will  return  later  on,"  he  said,  softly  with^ 
drawing. 

When  he  had  gone  she  lent  her  head  against  the 
arm  of  her.  rustic  chair,  and  shut  her  eyes  as  if 
mortally  tired. 

**  What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Flaminia. 

There  was  no  reply. 

**  Are  you  feeling  ill,  Maria?" 

"  No;  I  am  sad  and  I  am  bored." 

"  Are  you  very  bored?" 

"  Immensely.  I  am  bored  and  sad  as  no  one 
has  ever  been  bored  and  sad  in  this  world." 

**  What  should  one  do  to  distract  you,  to  make 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  255 

you  cheerful?"  she  said,  with  sincere  anxiety  and 
pain. 

"  Nothing,  dear,  nothing,*'  replied  Maria"  in  a 
weak  and  monotonous  voice;  *' love  me  a  little; 
there  is  no  need  for  anything  else.  That  will 
console  me." 

"  However,  that  won't  amuse  you,"  said 
Flaminia  frankly. 

**  But  it  helps  me  to  live,"  replied  Maria  sadly. 

**  Do  you  need  help  so  much,  dear?" 

**  So  much,  so  much,  to  go  on  living!"  the 
miserable  woman  replied  desperately. 

But  the  lugubrious  conversation  was  interrupted 
by  people  coming  and  going.  In  the  west  the 
light  took  gentle  sunset  tints,  and  the  whiteness 
and  brightness  of  the  ladies'  dresses  seemed  almost 
vaporous  and  transparent,  while  the  beauty  of  their 
faces  assiirn^d  a  more  indefinite  and  mysterious 
aspect.  A  languor  fell  from  the  sky,  which  kept 
growing  whiter,  and  the  voices  became  softer, and 
slower. 

**  Come  for  a  little  walk,"  said  Gianni  Provana, 
who  had  returned,  waiting  with  infinite  patience. 

*'  Do  go,"  said  Flaminia  to  her  friend.  **  Pro- 
vana, tell  her  something  brisk  and  witty.  Maria 
is  so  mortally  bored." 

**  Donna  Maria,  T  will  force  myself  to  be  full  of 
wit !"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  bow. 

The  woman  made  a  movement  of  fastidiousness 
and  nonchalance.     Then  she  rose  slowly  from  her 


256  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

place  and  replaced  her  cloak  on  her  shoulders,  and 
taking  her  white  parasol  where  she  had  introduced 
some  roses,  without  seeing  if  Provana  was  near 
or  following  her,  started,  after  giving  Flaminia 
a  little  tender  embrace,  telling  her  to  wait  for  her 
till  she  should  return. 

Gianni  Provana  rejoined  her  and  walked  beside 
her.  They  went  through  the  long  avenue  on  the 
left,  which  leads  from  the  top  of  the  wood  of  the 
Piazza  di  Siena  towards  the  back  of  the  Villa 
Borghese.  Others  were  walking  near  and  far  off 
in  couples  and  groups,  some  talking  softly,  others 
joking  and  laughing,  stopping  to  chatter  better 
and  laugh  and  joke;  others  were  silent.  The  sun- 
set rendered  the  avenue  more  melancholy,  in  spite 
of  gay  voices  and  peals  of  laughter. 

Maria  and  Gianni  Provana  did  not  speak.  She 
walked  slowly,  as  if  very  tired. 

*'  I  am  incapable  of  any  wit  near  you.  Donna 
Maria,"  said  Provana,  after  a  little  time. 

**  Don't  give  yourself  any  trouble;  it  is  use- 
less." 

*'  Is  it  true  that  you  are  so  mortally  bored?" 

"You  know  it,  it  seems,"  she  replied  in- 
differently, far  away. 

''  Once  you  told  me  that  you  found  the  strength 
to  live  in  yourself,  and  only  in  yourself.  Those 
were  your  words,  I  think.  I  didn't  understand 
them  very  well,  but  I  remember  them." 

**  Yes,    I    said    them    once,"    she    murmured 


USQUE    AD   MORTEM  257 

thoughtfully.     '*  And  it  was  true  then;  but  now  it 
is  no  longer  true." 

**  Why?" 

'*  I  have  nothing  more  within  me,"  she  replied 
desolately. 

But  she  seemed  to  say  it  to  herself  more  than  to 
him. 

**Try  to  interest  yourself  in  something  out- 
side yourself,"  he  suggested  insinuatingly  and 
quietly,  hiding  the  intense  interest  which  agitated 
him. 

*' I  have  tried  various  things;  and  I  haven't 
succeeded  in  binding  myself  to  anybody  or  any- 
thing." 

*' How  is  that?" 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  my  life,  that  is  all," 
she  concluded,  coldly  and  gloomily,  looking  at  the 
gnarled  trunk  of  a  very  old  tree. 

He  was  silent  and  troubled. 

'*  Still,  two  years  ago  in  returning  to  your 
home "  he  resumed. 

**  That  tragic  and  grotesque  farce  has  ended  with 
my  husband  as  the  travesty  of  a  hero,  and  with  me 
as  a  travesty  of  a  penitent !"  she  exclaimed  with  a 
sneer. 

**  O  Donna  Maria!"  he  exclaimed,  shocked. 

**  You  already  know  that  Emilio  hates  and 
despises  me,"  she  continued,  with  an  increasingly 
mordant  irony.  "  He  must  have  told  you.  Among 
men  you  discuss  these  things." 

'7  ) 


258  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

Provana  was  silent,  but  he  had  an  air  of 
agreeing. 

**  All  this  for  having  wished  to  pardon  me,  dear 
Provana.  Pardon  wasn't  in  him,  neither  was  it 
in  me." 

'*And  why?" 

'*  Because  pardon  is  a  great  thing,  when  the  soul 
remains  great  that  accords  it — a  pardon  complete 
and  absolute;  but  in  the  other  case  what  a  miser- 
able, humiliating,  and  insulting  thing  a  pardon 
is  I" 

**  In  the  other  case?" 

*'  Oh,  Emilio  is  a  poor  creature  !"  she  said,  with 
a  profound  accent  of  disdain,  shrugging  her 
shoulders,  and  adding  nothing  further,  as  if  she 
had  said  the  last  word  about  him. 

**  And  you,  and  you.  Donna  Maria?" 

*'  I  ?  I  owe  to  one  of  my  usual  exaltations  having 
inflicted  on  my  lively  being  one  of  the  most  un- 
supportable  humiliations  feminine  pride  can  ever 
endure." 

She  stopped,  troubled  and  proudly  pale,  with 
eyes  veiled  in  tears  of  indignation. 

"  You  understand,  I  asked  his  pardon  humbly. 
I  prayed  humbly  for  him  to  pronounce  it  with 
loyalty,  to  accord  it  fully  and  generously,  I,  Maria 
Guasco;  and  I  wept,  yes  wept,  before  him,  and 
endured  his  pardon ;  which  was,  instead  of  an 
absolution,  an  accusation,  an  inquiry,  a  daily 
condemnation." 


USQUE    AD   MORTEM  259 

Fortunately,  the  two  were  far  away  from  the 
others,  and  the  violet  tints  of  the  sunset  became 
deeper  beneath  the  trees.  The  woman  stopped, 
and  made  a  supreme  effort  to  stifle  her  sighs,  to 
repress  her  tears,  and  compose  her  face. 

"  Please  forget  what  I  have  told  you,"  she  said 
imperiously  to  Provana,  putting  a  hand  on  his 
arm. 

**  Why,  then,  why?"  he  exclaimed,  becoming 
suddenly  heated;  '*  why  do  you  like  to  treat  me 
always  as  a  man  without  a  heart  or  a  soul  ?  Who 
gives  you  the  right  to  treat  me  thus?  Why  must 
I  always  be  considered  by  you  as  an  enemy  ? 
Don't  you  believe  that  I  have  fibre  and  feelings, 
like  other  human  beings  ?  Am  I  a  monster  ?  Why 
don't  you  believe  that  i  can  understand  you  and 
follow  you  to  the  depths  and  speak  a  word  of  con- 
solation, even  I  ?  Am  1  unfit,  then,  to  be  your 
friend?" 

She  was  stupefied  at  this  cry  of  sorrow,  new  and 
unthought  of. 

*'  Oh,  let  me  be,  Maria,  let  me  be  your  friend. 
Do  let  me,  that  together  our  two  souls  may  be 
healed,  mine  from  cynicism  and  yours  from  dis- 
comfort and  desolation.  I  ask  you  to  let  me  be 
your  friend,  nothing  else.  I  have  been  ill  for  so 
many  years,  from  every  mortal  illness,  and  I  thirst 
for  good.  You,  too,  Maria,  have  been  so  ill;  let 
us  seek  some  pleasure  together." 

She  felt  that  he  was  sincere  at  that  moment, 


26o  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

sincere  as  he  had  never  been,  as  he  never  would  be 
again.  But  she  knew  that  there  are  no  pleasures 
in  life  unless  accompanied  by  devouring  poisons. 
She  knew  that  there  are  no  succours  and  comforts 
between  man  and  woman  without  mortal  danger, 
and  without  fatal  and  mortal  error.  The  truth, 
impetuous  and  brutal,  rose  in  the  woman's 
words. 

**  Are  you  asking  me  to  be  your  lover?'* 

He  at  once  became  cold,  and  replied — 

**Yes/' 

*'  I  don't  wish  to  be,"  she  replied,  turning  her 
back,  and  replacing  her  cloak  on  her  shoulders  to 
resume  their  walk. 

Gianni  Provana  did  not  frown  nor  change 
countenance. 

**  Still,  it  will  be  so." 

*'Why?"  exclaimed  Maria  disdainfully. 

*'  Because  now  there  is  nothing  else  to  be  done," 
he  concluded  composedly. 

**Ah!"  she  interrupted;  and  she  would  have 
said  more  but  kept  silent,  becoming  absorbed  and 
gloomy. 

"  You  already  know  that  your  husband  will  not 
change  his  behaviour  to  you;  your  disagreement 
can't  help  becoming  intenser  and  deeper  every 
day." 

She  assented  with  a  nod,  becoming  gloomier. 

**  You  already  know,  you  will  have  been  told, 
that  Marco   Fiore  has  become  enamoured  of  an 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  261 

actress,  an  actress  with  red  hair,  Gemma  Dom- 
browska,  and  that  perhaps  he  will  go  off  with  her 
as  with  you  ...  as  with  you.** 

Bitterness,  sarcasm,  anger  vibrate  in  every  word 
of  Gianni  Provana  as  he  follows  the  woman, 
persuading  and  persecuting  her. 

She  bent  her  head  in  assent,  because  she  knew. 

**  You  see  quite  well  !'*  he  exclaimed  in  a  hissing 
voice,  "  that  there  is  nothing  else  for  you  in  life, 
but  to  become  my  lover." 

A  sense  of  fatality  seemed  to  weigh  on  the 
woman's  life,  w^hich  oppressed  and  squashed  her. 
Evening  had  fallen  in  the  avenues  and  it  seemed 
like  night.  All  the  ladies  who  had  still  remained 
in  the  wooded  lawns  and  avenues  covered  them- 
selves with  their  cloaks  and  hurried  their  steps, 
accompanied  by  their  cavaliers. 

Farewells  are  exchanged,  light  laughter,  and 
small  cries,  while  the  waiters  denude  the  last 
tables,  and  the  great  stall  of  the  fragolata  is 
covered  with  squashed  strawberries  and  withered 
leaves.  Every  one  hurries  to  the  gate  in  a  kind 
of  flight,  leaving  the  wood  behind  filled  with 
night,  fearful  in  its  solitude,  where  it  seemed  to 
be  peopled  with  unknown  phantoms. 

Near  the  great  gate  Flaminia  Colonna,  Maria 
Guasco  and  Gianni  Provana  meet  face  to  face 
Donna  Vittoria  Fiore,  accompanied  by  her  sister 
Beatrice.  Marco  Fiore's  wife  had  been  at  the 
fragolata  all  the  afternoon,  but  as  usual  had  kept 


262  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

herself  in  some  far-off  corner  in  the  shadow  of 
her  sister,  and  had  not  approached  the  patron- 
esses* stall,  nor  had  she  participated  at  any  of  the 
little  strawberry  tables.  She  was  there,  at  the 
threshold  of  Villa  Borghese,  behind  her  sister,  who 
had  advanced  to  call  the  carriage  of  Casa  Fiore. 
She  was  there,  with  her  little  white  closed  face  and 
eyelids  lowered  over  eyes  too  clear  and  limpid, 
with  the  lower  half  of  her  face  hidden  in  the 
feathers  of  her  white  boa.  But  at  a  certain  moment 
her  eyes  are  raised  and  meet  those  of  Maria 
Guasco,  pregnant  with  sadness  and  pride.  Vit- 
toria's  glance  flashed  as  never  before  in  unspeak- 
able hate.  Maria  Guasco  smiled  and  laughed,  as 
bending  towards  Gianni  Provana  she  said — 

'*  Not  so  bad  I    not  so  bad !     She  at  any  rate 
has  not  pardoned  me.*' 


II 

**  Your  Excellency,  dinner  is  served,"  an- 
nounced the  butler  at  the  door  of  the  salottOy 
bowing  to  Donna  Arduina  Fiore. 

Donna  Arduina  put  down  her  knitting  of  dark 
wool,  a  petticoat  destined  for  some  poor  woman 
dying  of  cold  in  the  winter.     She  asked — 

"  Has  Don  Marco  returned?" 

**  No,  Excellency,  but  his  man  Francesco  has 
returned  with  a  letter  for  Your  Excellency,"  and  he 
advanced  with  a  note  on  a  silver  tray.  In  the  in- 
creasing gloom  of  the  room,  Donna  Arduina 
raised  her  eyes  to  Heaven  with  a  fleeting  act  of 
resignation,  as  she  took  her  son's  letter.  She  had 
received  many  others  in  the  far-off  times,  which 
it  seemed  to  her  ought  never  to  have  returned 
again  with  their  habits,  and  now  at  the  day's  fall 
Marco  again  writes  to  her  as  formerly.  She 
read — 

**  Dear  Mamma,  excuse  me,  pardon  me,  but  I 

am  detained  by  friends  for  dinner  at  the  club.     If 

I  can  return  early  I  will  come  and  kiss  your  hand, 

if  not,  to-morrow.     Bless  me. — Marco." 

263 


264  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

The  tender  mother  sighed,  blessing  as  usual  in 
her  heart  her  favourite  son,  even  if  absent  and 
drawn  away  elsewhere  by  others.  In  her  deep 
maternal  egoism  she  is  content  that  nobody  and 
nothing  have  the  power  to  make  her  son  forget 
his  mother  entirely.  Still  she  sighed,  and  said 
to  the  butler — 

"  Please  inform  Donna  Vittoria  that  dinner  is 
served,  and  that  I  am  waiting  for  her  in  the  dining- 
room.*'  It  is  not  very  long  since  Donna  Arduina 
made  common  table  with  her  children,  Marco  and 
Vittoria.  In  the  early  days  of  their  marriage  she 
said  that  she  did  not  wish  to  change  her  usual 
time-table,  little  suitable  for  the  young  couple; 
but  it  was  really  an  affectionate  excuse  to  leave 
them  in  liberty.  Little  by  little,  however,  she 
learnt  that  they  not  only  desired  her  presence  at 
the  family  table,  but  felt  an  intimate  need  of  it,  as 
if  to  prevent  embarrassment,  so  great  and  frequent 
had  become  the  coldness  and  silence  between  Marco 
and  Vittoria.  Once,  wath  a  boyish  caress,  which 
he  knew  how  to  give  his  mother,  winning  her  as 
he  had  always  won  her  from  a  little  one,  Marco 
had  said  to  her — 

"Mamma  dear,  don't  abandon  us  in  the  hour 
of  our  dinner  as  in  that  of  our  death  !" 

*'Why?     Why?" 

**  You  know  Vittoria  more  than  ever  at  that 
hour  seeks  the  solution  of  a  philosophical  problem, 
which  has  fatigued  the  mind  of  many  philosophers. 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  265 

Hence  I  dare  not  disturb  her.  At  least  you  have 
the  habit  of  opening  your  mouth,  mamma  bella, 
and  pronouncing  a  few  words.** 

Thus  the  new  custom  was  assumed  without 
Vittoria  asking  the  reason.  At  table,  to  solve  the 
question  of  places,  the  two  ladies  of  the  house 
were  seated  one  opposite  the  other,  the  two  places 
of  honour  separated  by  some  distance.  Marco*s 
place  was  on  the  right  of  his  mother,  but  much 
nearer  to  her,  in  fact  quite  far  from  his  wife.  So 
Donna  Vittoria  Fiore  seemed  isolated  down  there 
in  the  place  of  honour  on  her  high-backed  chair 
with  a  carved  coronet,  which  topped  the  ornamenta- 
tion and  stood  out  above  the  little  head  with  its 
aureola  of  golden  hair;  but  she  seemed  serene  and 
tranquil.  Mother  and  son  often,  when  she  was 
there,  forgot  her,  and  during  dinner  a  conversation 
took  place  between  the  two  without  either  directing 
a  word  to  Vittoria,  and  as  Vittoria  never  questioned 
either,  neither  replied.  Sometimes  as  they  talked 
they  looked  at  her,  as  if  to  make  her  take  part  in 
the  conversation,  but,  without  opening  her  mouth, 
she  would  content  herself  with  nodding  her  head 
to  what  they  said,  almost  automatically.  For  two 
or  three  months  now,  with  a  plausible  excuse  but 
with  increasing  regularity,  Marco  was  missing  at 
the  family  meal.  Sometimes  he  announced  the 
fact  the  day  before,  sometimes  he  said  so  at 
luncheon,  and  at  last,  at  the  close  of  the  season, 
he  more  often  sent  a  little  note  to  his  mother  to 


266  AFTER   THE    Px\RDON 

say  that  he  was  not  returning  to  dinner :  but 
always  to  his  mother,  never  to  Vittoria. 

"  But  why  don't  you  write  a  word  to  her?"  she 
asked,  a  little,  but  not  very,  shocked. 

**  Because  Your  Excellency  is  mistress  of  the 
house  !"  he  proclaimed,  embracing  her  like  a  child, 
and  smiling  and  laughing. 

**  Still,  she  could  be  hurt  about  it,''  observed  the 
good  woman. 

'*  Vittoria?     Never." 

When  his  absences  became  more  frequent,  she 
made  some  firm  remonstrances  to  him. 

**  Why  do  you  abandon  us,  Marco?" 

**  Do  I,  mamma?"  he  said,  with  an  uncertain 
smile. 

"  Vittoria  may  be  displeased  by  it." 

**  You,  mamma,  you;  not  Vittoria." 

**  Are  you  sure?" 

**  Ask  her.  Try  and  ask  her.  You  will  cut  a 
poor  figure,  madre  bella,  since  Vittoria  will  reply 
that  it  matters  nothing  to  her." 

"Pretending?" 

"Pretending?  Who  knows!  For  that  matter 
I  can't  endure  people  who  pretend." 

**  Even  those  who  are  hiding  their  sorrow?" 

**  Even  them.  A  hidden  sorrow  doesn't  exist  for 
me. 

**  You  are  cruel,  Marco." 

**  There,  there,  mamma,  sweet  as  honey,  you 
mustn't  think  me  cruel!" 


USQUE    AD   MORTEM  267 

The  mother,  a  little  thoughtful,  was  silent,  but 
not  convinced.  This  evening  the  absence  of  her 
son  had  worried  her  more  than  ever.  She  entered 
slowly  the  immense,  solemn,  gloomy  dining-room 
of  Casa  Fiore  just  as  Vittoria  entered  from  the 
other  side.  The  young  woman  read  the  pain  on 
the  good-natured  old  face. 

*'  Isn't  Marco  coming  to  dinner,  mamma?"  she 
asked  indifferently,  sitting  down. 

"  No,  dear.  He  has  been  kept  at  the  club  by 
friends.'' 

*'  Ah  !  and  is  he  returning  late?"  and  there  was 
even  greater  indifference  in  this  second  remark. 

**  Perhaps  yes,  perhaps  no,"  added  Donna  Ar- 
duina,  looking  closely  at  her  daughter-in-law. 

Vittoria  appeared  not  to  have  heeded  her  mother- 
in-law's  reply.  The  dinner  proceeded  in  silence, 
slowly  and  peacefully,  served  by  servants  who 
made  no  noise  in  crossing  the  imposing  space, 
where  a  single  candelabra  concentrated  its  light  on 
the  table,  leaving  the  rest  of  the  room  obscure. 

Donna  Arduina  Fiore  had  always  had  a  holy 
terror  of  installing  the  electric  light  in  the  old 
palace  full  of  carving,  precious  pictures,  and 
objects  of  art.  So  the  old  aristocratic  methods  of 
illumination  prevailed,  large  oil  lamps  and  huge 
candelabra  with  wax  candles. 

*'  Where  are  you  going  this  evening,  Vittoria'?'* 
said  Donna  Arduina,  interrupting  the  heavy 
silence. 


268  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  Nowhere,  mother." 

*'  I  thought  you  were  going  with  Beatrice  to 
the  last  performance  of  the  Walkyrie?** 

**  Beatrice  is  going  there.     I  said  I  wouldn't." 

**  Does  it  bore  you?'* 

*'It  bores  me." 

**  Don't  you  like  the  theatre?" 

**  So-so,  you  know." 

**  Still,  any  way  you  prefer  music?" 

"Yes,  I  prefer  music;  but  even  that  doesn't 
make  me  enthuse." 

**  It  seems  to  me,  Vittoria,  that  you  enthuse  for 
very  few  things  in  the  world;"  and  she  tempered 
th«  observation  with  a  quiet  smile. 

**  I  enthuse  over  nothing,  mamma;  really  over 
nothing,"  replied  Vittoria  emphatically. 

"But  why,  daughter?  Why?  There  is  good 
in  enthusiasm." 

"  I  don't  enthuse,  mother,  by  temperament,  also 
by  character  :  I  am  made  so.  I  have  been  made 
very  badly,"  the  young  woman  declared,  with  an 
expression  of  bitterness. 

"Haven't  you  tried  to  change  yourself? — to 
interest  yourself  deeply  in  something? — to  like 
something  keenly?     Have  you  tried?" 

"  I  have  tried  and  failed." 

"  Still  you  must  have  thought  and  felt  that 
something  in  the  world  deserves  all  our  heart?" 

"Yes,  mother,  I  have  thought  and  felt  it,"  the 
daughter-in-law  replicfl  firmly. 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  269. 

••What,  my  daughter?*' 

**  Love,  mother,"  she  replied  firmly. 

**Love?'*  repeated  Donna  Arduina,  surprised. 

**  Exactly,  my  mother.  School  stories,  follies 
of  youth.     Old  stories!" 

With  a  vague  bow  she  seemed  to  greet  these 
dreams  and  follies  so  old  and  far  away,  so  dead 
and  scattered.  The  mother-in-law  was  silent, 
wrapped  in  the  ideas  and  sentiments  suggested  by 
her  daughter-in-law,  which  crowded  her  mind. 
The  dinner  finished,  Donna  Arduina  rose  to  take 
leave  of  Vittoria. 

*'  Will  you  let  me  keep  you  company,  mother?" 
Vittoria  asked. 

"Certainly,  dear;  do  come." 

Presently  both  were  seated  in  Donna  Arduina's 
ancient  room,  under  the  large  oil  lamp  covered 
with  a  shade. 

While  the  old  lady  persevered  with  her  woollen 
petticoat  for  some  poor  woman,  Vittojia  resumed 
work  on  a  bodice,  also  destined  to  clothe  some  poor 
unfortunate  in  winter.  They  remained  a  little 
without  raising  their  eyes  from  the  brown  bundles 
of  wool,  which  kept  increasing  under  their  hands. 

"Vittoria!"  cried  Donna  Arduina  suddenly. 

"Mother?" 

"  Are  you  displeased  that  Marco  didn't  return 
to  dinner  this  evening?" 

"No." 

"Really;  doesn't  it  displease  you?" 


270  AFTER   THE   PARDON  ( 

**  Really  I'' 

"  In  fact  it  matters  nothing  to  you  that  Marco 
doesn't  put  in  an  appearance  at  dinner?*' 

''Why  do  you  ask  me?'* 

**Tell  me  if  it  is  true.'* 

"And  who  told  you  ?" 

'*  My  son,  your  husband.  He  maintains  that  it 
matters  nothing  to  you  if  he  goes  or  comes,  returns 
or  doesn't  return." 

"  He  is  right,"  replied  Vittoria,  after  a  pause. 

"  Have  you  told  him  that,  my  daughter?" 

"  I  have  told  him  that.** 

'*Why?  You  have  committed  an  imprudence. 
We  must  never  show  men  that  we  do  not  value 
them.'* 

"  Value  or  not  value,  show  it  or  not  show  it, 
mother,  what  does  it  matter?"  exclaimed  the 
young  woman,  leaving  off  her  work,  with  an  accent 
of  weariness  and  fastidiousness.  "  All  that  won't 
change  mine  and  Marco's  fate." 

*' Christians  don't  believe  in  fate,  Vittoria!** 
murmured  Donna  Arduina. 

*'  Perhaps  I'm  a  bad  Christian  as  well,"  she 
replied,  with  a  feeble  smile;  "  but  I  know  my  fate 
and  Marco's  now,  as  if  I  were  a  gipsy,  a  sorceress, 
a  witch.** 

"Vittoria!** 

"Take  no  notice,  mother,  I  was  joking,**  con- 
cluded the  daughter-in-law,  lowering  her  eyes  on 
her  work. 


USQUE    AD    MORTEM  271 

But  the  mother-in-law  did  not  wish  to  be  silent; 
it  seemed  to  her  that  the  hour  ought  not  to  pass 
without  a  more  intimate  and  intense  explanation. 

*' Do  you,  then,  know  everything,  Vittoria?'' 
she  asked  slowly. 

"  How  is  one  not  to  know  it?  Even  living  as  a 
creature  abandoned  in  a  corner  of  a  palace,  as  an 
insignificant  creature  in  a  corner  of  a  drawing- 
room,  there  is  always  somebody  to  tell  you  every- 
thing, mother,"  replied  Vittoria  bitterly  and 
coldly. 

'*  Some  one  has  told  you  ?" 

*'Some  one?  Several;  many,  in  fact.  My 
friends  have  hurried  to  let  me  know  that  Marco 
has  taken  a  violent  fancy  for  an  actress.  I  know 
every  particular,  mother.  The  actress  is  a  Milan- 
ese, has  magnificent  red  hair,  and  is  tall.  She  is 
called  Gemma  Dombrowska,  a  Russian  name,  not 
her  own,  but  assumed  from  some  great  family  over 
there.'* 

The  coldest  bitterness  w'as  in  Vittoria's  voice, 
and  she  continued  mechanically  to  knit  her  bodice. 

*' And  what  do  you  say,  Vittoria?  What  are 
you  going  to  do?" 

**I?  I  am  going  to  say  and  do  nothing, 
mother!"  she  exclaimed  harshly. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  help  yourself?  defend 
yourself?" 

"  I  can't  help  myself,  and  nothing  can  defend 
me;"  and  she  turned  her  head  away,  perhaps  so 


272  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

that  the  mother  of  her  husband  might  read  nothing 
there. 

"But  at  least  you  love  your  husband?"  the 
mother-in-law  cried. 

**  I  love  him,"  proclaimed  the  young  woman, 
with  unexpected  ardour  in  her  accent.  "  I  love 
him.  It  is  he  who  doesn*t  love  me.  So  you  see 
all  is  useless." 

**  Why  do  you  think  he  doesn't  love  you? 
How  do  you  know  ?   How  are  you  convinced  of  it  ?" 

"  Mother,  mother,  you  are  convinced  of  it,  you 
have  always  been  convinced  of  it,"  replied  the 
young  woman  with  dignity. 

Donna  Arduina  rose  from  her  place,  and 
stretched  out  a  hand  to  touch  Vittoria's,  with  a 
sad,  consoling  caress. 

'*  Poor  Vittoria!"  she  murmured. 

And  she  thought  that  the  young  woman  ought 
to  fall  in  her  arms  and  break  into  tears  and  sobs. 
No.  The  blonde's  youthful  mouth  contracted  like 
a  flower  which  closes  while  the  colours  grow  pale, 
but  she  did  not  move  nor  cry. 

"Do  you  pity  me,  mother?"  she  asked 
strangely. 

"  Yes,  dear,  yes  !" 

**  Like  your  son,  then.  It  is  a  family  habit," 
replied  Vittoria  mockingly. 

'•  Vktoria!     Vittoria!" 

"  Excuse  me,  mother.  My  horrible  destiny  is 
caused  from  this  horrible  thing,  pity." 


USQUE    AD   MORTEM  273 

"What  are  you  saying?  What  are  you  say- 
ing?*' 

"Nothing,  mother  mine;  I'll  say  no  more.  I 
don't  want  to  say  anything  more.  Pardon  me.  I 
oughtn't  to  have  spoken.  You  asked  me;  in 
obedience  I  spoke.     Let  me  be  quite  silent." 

"Oh  daughter,  daughter,  what  a  difficult 
character  is  yours!"  replied  the  elder  lady,  with  a 
deep  sigh. 

"Difficult?  Very  bad,  mother,  a  shocking 
character  !  1  shall  die,  and  no  one  will  understand 
it." 

"  You  must  live;  you  must  begin  your  life  again, 
Vittoria,  and  try  to  lead  my  son.  He  must  love 
you." 

"  He  can't." 

"He  can't?" 

"  No.     He  can't  love  me." 

"But  why?" 

"  Because  he  loved  the  other.*' 

"  Can't  one  love  two  women,  one  after  the 
other?" 

"  It  seems  not." 

"  Still  he  has  always  liked  )^ou." 

"  Yes,  he  has  liked  me;  but  not  loved  me." 

"  He  has  married  you." 

"  Through  tenderness  and  pity — not  through 
love." 

"  He  has  continued  to  give  you  every  proof  of 
his  affection." 
l9 


274  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

*'  Affection,  certainly;  no  love." 

**What  did  you  expect?  What  are  you  ex- 
pecting?** 

*' An  impossible  thing,  mother!  To  be  loved 
with  passion,  with  vehemence,  like  the  other,** 

**  Oh,  my  daughter,  it  is  impossible.'* 

**  I  have  told  you;  it  is  impossible." 

**  And  did  you  marry  Marco  with  that  desire?*' 

**  With  that  desire.  If  not,  I  shouldn't  have 
married  him ;  if  not,  I  shouldn't  have  forgiven  his 
betrayal.*' 

"You  pardoned,  then,  conditionally?  With 
selfish  intent?  With  a  selfish  desire?  Not  as  a 
Christian?*' 

*'  No,  mother,  not  as  a  Christian.  I  pardoned 
him  as  a  woman,  as  a  woman  in  love;  that  is, 
imperfectly,  badly." 

"  Then  the  sin  is  yours,  Vittoria." 

**  Yes,  it  is  mine.  If  I  question  my  heart  it 
seems  I  am  right,  if  I  question  my  conscience  I 
am  wrong  and  the  sin  is  mine.  Don't  you  see? 
I  am  childless.  God  has  punished  me;  I  shall 
never  be  a  mother,  never,  never." 

"What  will  you  do,  Vittoria?  What  do  you 
want  to  do?" 

'*  Nothing,  mother.  I  have  nothing  to  do  on 
this  earth,  neither  for  myself  nor  others.  I  go  on 
living  here  because  suicide  is  a  great  sin.  I  shall 
go  on  living  here,  forgotten,  in  a  corner  as  usual, 
like  everybody  who  hasn't  known  how  to  do  right 


USQUE   AD    MORTEM  275 

in  life.  I  am  wrong,  mother,  I  am  wrong.  That 
is  why  I  don't  complain,  that  is  why  I  mustn't 
complain.  Why  did  you  make  me  speak?  For- 
get all  I  have  told  you,  and  repeat  it  to  nobody. 
Don't  expose  me  again  to  the  pity  of  anybody  : 
your  pity,  mother,  yes;  but  nobody  else's." 

She  looked  at  her  with  such  an  expression  of 
suffering,  nobly  born,  with  such  desire  of  silence 
and  respect  for  her  suffering,  that  Donna  Arduina 
was  deeply  moved. 

*'  Mother,    let    me    be    forgotten    in    a    corner.      S^, 
Promise  me  you  will  say  nothing." 

"  I  promise  you,  my  daughter,  I  promise  you; 
still  I  deeply  sympathise  with  you,"  said  Donna 
Arduina,  with  a  big  sigh. 

Donna  Vittoria  rose,  bent  her  golden  head  to 
kiss  her  hand,  and  disappeared  silently,  she  disap- 
peared like  a  soft  shadow  to  be  forgotten  in  a 
corner  of  the  world,  in  a  corner  of  the  house,  like 
a  poor,  soft,  little  shadow  which  has  never  been 
right,  which  can  never,  never  be  right — which 
must  always  be  wrong  till  death  and  beyond. 


Ill 

**  Can  I  come  in,  Marco?"  said  a  dear  and  well- 
known  voice  at  the  door. 

"  Always,  always,  mamma  bella,*'  he  cried 
vivaciously  from  his  bed.  •       '      ,  • 

Donna  Arduina  entered,  with  slow  and  dignified 
tread,  and  approached  the  bed  where  her  son  was 
smoking  a  cigarette  after  his  coffee.  He  threw 
the  cigarette  away  at  once  to  embrace  her.  In- 
stinctively, with  maternal  care,  she  adjusted  the 
pillow,  and  pulled  the  counterpane  over  a  little. 
The  son  smiled  as  he  let  her  do  it.  She  looked 
at  him,  studied  him,  and  found  his  appearance 
tired  and  run  down.  He  leaned  again  on  his 
pillow,  as  if  still  glad  to  repose.  The  mother  sat 
by  the  bed  quietly  watching. 

**  You  came  home  late  yesterday  evening?**  she 
asked. 

**  A  little  late,  it  is  true.'* 

**  I  waited  for  you  till  midnight,  likie  I  used  to, 
Marco  mio." 

**  Fifteen  years  ago,  madra  mia :  how  old  I  am 

growing  !" 

**  I  want  to  preach  you  a  sermon  now  as  I  used 
«76 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  277 

to.  Do  you  remember?  A  sermon  on  your  too 
jolly  and  disordered  life.*' 

**  Oh,  mother  dear,**  he  protested,  with  a  veil  of 
sadness  in  the  accent. 

'*  Suppose  I  were  to  preach  you  a  sermon  this 
morning?"  she  added,  still  tenderly. 

**  I  don't  deserve  it,  mamma;  I  don't  deserve 
it." 

**  Marco,  you  are  again  leading  a  too  disordered 
and  jolly  life.'* 

'*  You  are  wrong.  Few  men  in  the  world  bore 
themselves  more  than  I  do.** 

**  Where  do  you  go,  when  you  don't  dine  with 
us,  Marco?" 

**  To  some  place  where  I  can  bore  myself  less 
than  in  Casa  Fiore,  madre  bella.  Not  on  your 
account,  see.     You  know  I  adore  you." 

**  Is  it  to  fly  from  poor  Vittoria?" 

**  Even  you,  mamma,  say  poor  Vittoria!  Even 
you  are  moved  with  compassion  for  her  I  And 
why  aren't  you  moved  with  compassion  for  your 
son,  for  him  whom  you  have  placed  in  the  world  ? 
Why  don't  you  say,  poor  Marco?  Don't  you  see 
that  I  am  unhappy?"  And  his  exclamations  were 
half  melancholy  and  ironical,  while  his  face  grew 
disturbed  and  sad. 

"  Alas,  my  son,  what  a  cross  for  me  to  see  all 
this,  and  to  be  able  to  do  nothing !  It  seems  that 
all  are  wrong  and  all  are  right.  What  am  I  to 
do,  my  God,  what  am  I  to  do?" 


278  AFTER   THE   PARDON 

**  Pity  your  son.  Love  him  more  than  ever; 
caress  him  as  you  used  to  four  or  five  years  ago; 
try  to  make  him  forget  his  domestic  unhappiness.*' 

''  But  why  are  you  unhappy?  Why  is  Vittoria 
unhappy?  Is  it  through  a  misunderstanding; 
through  a  hundred  misunderstandings?  Is  it  not 
so?" 

Marco  shook  his  head,  and,  without  replying,  lit 
another  cigarette. 

*'  Marco,  why  have  you  resumed  your  bachelor 
room  ?  Why  do  you  sleep  here  ?'*  And  she  threw 
a  glance  round  the  old  room,  where  all  around  were 
large  and  small  portraits  of  Maria  Guasco,  with 
fresh  flowers  in  some  vases  before  them. 

**  I  sleep  here  because  Vittoria  wishes  it,'*  he 
said,  with  a  sarcastic  laugh. 

"Vittoria?" 

**  Yes.  Sometimes  for  one  reason,  sometimes 
for  another;  sometimes  for  a  novena,  sometimes 
because  she  is  not  well,  sometimes  because  of  my 
departure  or  my  return  from  hunting.  In  fact  it 
is  she,  mamma,  who  has  given  me  liberty,  so  I 
have  taken  it,  and  I  am  naturally  at  present  most 
contented  with  it." 

"  I  am  sure  that  she  has  suifereci,  and  is  suffer- 
ing about  this." 

"  Perhaps  yes,  perhaps  no.  At  any  rate  she 
dissimulates  perfectly,  that  is  to  say,  mother,  she 
lies;  I  can't  go  beyond  appearances," 

"How  sad,  Marco  I" 


USQUE    AD    MORTEM  279 

**  Mamma,  I  have  always  been  used  to  truthful 
women.  You  are  one  of  them.  Vittoria  is  a 
hypocrite.'* 

"  You  are  unjust  and  cruel  to  her." 

*'  Certainly.  I  recognise  it.  But  she  has  done 
everything  to  make  me  so.  If  only  you  knew, 
mamma,  what  I  was  to  her  at  the  beginning !  If 
only  you  knew  !  Suffering,  weak  and  exhausted 
by  an  immense  passion,  I  tried  to  conquer  myself. 
I  searched  for  strength,  for  gaiety,  for  tenderness 
to  give  them  to  Vittoria.  Since  it  was  said  to  me : 
render  this  woman  happy,  do  this  work  of  repent- 
ance  and  beauty,  I  have  tried  to  obey,  mamma; 
but  everything  has  been  useless.  Vittoria  has  not 
understood  me.'* 

**  Perhaps  you  have  not  understood  her.  She 
loved  you  ardently  from  the  first  moment  of  her 
engagement;  she  still  loves  you  so." 

*'  No,  mamma,  no.  Either  Vittoria  does  not 
love  me  or  she  does  not  know  how  to  love." 

'*  So  young,  so  inexperienced,  and  so  ignorant !" 

**  Mother,  mother,  Vittoria  knew  everything. 
All  my  violent  and  brutal  betrayal  has  told  her 
that  my  only  and  unique  love  romance  has  been 
with  Maria  Guasco;  the  only  one,  mamma.  She 
dreamed  of  making  another  in  matrimony, 
another  romance  of  passion  and  madness,  as  if 
matrimony  were  not  a  union  wise  and  tender, 
sweet  and  profound,  not  passionate  and  frenetic." 

**She    deceived    herself.    She    hoped    for    too 


28o  AFTER   THE   PARDON 

much.    She    dared    to    hope    too    much.     Don*t 
punish  her  for  that.'* 

**  It  is  she  who  has  punished  me  for  having 
wished  to  make  her  happy.  All  my  affection  has 
seemed  little  to  her,  all  my  tenderness  has  seemed 
mean  to  her.  But  you  know,  mamma,  how  she 
and  she  only  has  spurned  me.  You  know  that  I 
have  seen  all  my  proofs  of  afifection  refused." 

**0  Dio  mio!'* 

"  It  is  so.  From  the  moment  that  I  could  not 
offer  her  passion,  she  did  not  wish  to  know 
me.  A  silent  drama,  understand,  a  drama  of 
matrimony  developed  between  us,  and  I  have 
had  ever  before  me  a  face  as  pale  and  cold  as 
marble;  she  is  a  soul  closed,  indifferent  and  scorn- 
ful; she  is  a  spirit  that  is  inattentive  and  bored, 
and  hers  is  an  iciness  which  sometimes  reaches 
the  point  of  contempt." 

**  Oh,  Marco,  in  spite  of  that  she  adored  you 
and  does  adore  you  ! '  * 

"  It  may  be,  it  may  be;  but  she  adores  me  badly. 
Nevertheless,  believe  me,  this  adoration  is  com- 
posed entirely  of  egoism,  of  amour  propre^  and 
jealousy." 

**  Even  of  jealousy?" 

**  Above  all.  I  know  it,  I  know  this  is  so; 
Vittoria  has  lived,  and  lives,  with  the  incubus  of 
Maria  Guasco  on  her  soul  and  heart.  And  all 
this  love  of  hers  is  the  offended  pride  of  a  woman 
who  would  overcome  her  supposed  rival;  all  her 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  281 

love  is  exalted  amour  propre,  is  a  monstrous 
egoism." 

**0  Marco,  Marco!*' 

*'  Mother,  I  am  suffering,  let  me  say  it,  let  me 
unburden  myself.  To  whom  should  I  say  it  but 
to  you?  Who  has  placed  me  before  this  waxen 
doll,  this  poor  little  animal  of  a  body  with  cold 
blood,  this  dissembling  soul,  all  craftiness,  all 
deceit,  this  heart  full  of  a  desire  which  it  is  im- 
possible for  it  to  realise,  full  of  cold  anger;  in 
fact  this  creature  without  abandon,  without  loyalty 
and  without  fascination?" 

*'  O  Marco,  my  son!" 

**  Since  you  have  come  here  this  mornmg  you 
must  listen  to  me.  I  have,  in  short,  bound  my 
life  to  her,  I  have  given  my  name  to  her  and  I 
would  have  given  her  all  my  existence,  since  they 
told  me  to  give  it  to  her.  Mother,  see  what  she 
has  done  with  it !  Among  other  things  she  is 
childless.  We  have  no  sons;  we  shall  not  have 
any ;  and  this  marriage  is  another  of  those  immoral 
and  indecent  unions  between  two  persons  of  oppo- 
site temperaments,  of  opposite  character,  hostile 
in  fact  to  one  another,  made  not  to  understand  each 
other,  made  not  to  fuse,  made  to  contradict  each 
other,  and  at  last  to  hate  each  other.  I  am  per- 
fectly positive  Vittoria  hates  me.'* 

**  You  are  so  unjust  to  her,  my  son." 

**  She  does  not  hate  me  to-day;  but  she  will  to- 
morrow.    For  her  I  represent  an  immense  disillu- 


282  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

sion  of  amour  propre,  a  defeat  of  her  egoism >  a 
real  sentimental  rout.  You  will  see,  you  will  see 
how  Vittoria  will  hate  me." 

"But  what  should  this  unfortunate  creature 
have  done  to  please  you,  to  unite  herself  to  you  in 
spirit,  to  render  to  you  the  happiness  you  were 
giving  to  her?" 

"  Love  me,  mother  !" 

"  Doesn*t  she  love  you?" 

*' To  love  me,  mother,  not  for  herself;  to  give 
all  and  ask  nothing;  to  be  happy  that  a  man 
delivered  from  the  fatality  of  an  unlawful  passion 
is  in  a  haven  of  peace;  to  be  serenity  itself;  to  be, 
in  short,  the  Christian  wife,  the  ideal  companion 
of  our  hearth  whose  scope  is  every  soft  desire  of 
ours." 

*'  Oh,  what  a  gulf,  my  son,  what  a  gulf  !" 

"Between  me  and  Vittoria?  Immense,  immea- 
surable, it  is  impossible  to  bridge  it,  impossible 
to  surmount  it." 

"  What  is  to  be  done,  what  is  to  be  done?" 

'*  Nothing,  mother  dear.  You  can  do  nothing. 
Let  Vittoria  execrate  me  to-morrow;  let  her  con- 
sider me  as  the  cause  of  all  her  misfortune;  let 
me  be  an  object  of  repulsion  to  her.  It  is  better 
so." 

**  But  you  already  have  a  sweetheart,  after  two 
years  of  married  life?" 

"Who,  I,  a  sweetheart?  You  are  joking, 
mother?" 


USQUE    AD   MORTEM  283 

**  But  that  woman,  that  actress.'* 

**Who,  Gemma?  Oh,  what  a  saint  you  are, 
my  mother !  We  don't  call  those  sweethearts. 
They  are  a  slight  distraction ;  a  home  where  there 
is  a  different  woman  who  greets  you  with  constant 
good  humour,  who  lets  you  play  or  joke  or  sleep 
as  you  please;  who  asks  you  nothing,  who  under- 
stands nothing,  but  who  does  not  ask  to  be  under- 
stood." 

**How  awful,  Marco!" 

**  O  Saint  Arduina !  O  sainted  mother  mine!" 

**  Your  wife  knows  of  this  relation  :  they  have 
told  her  of  it  as  being  a  great  scandal." 

**  You  too;  and  are  you  scandalised?" 

**  I  ?  very  much." 

**  If  you  like  I  will  leave  Gemma,  mother  dear." 

**  You  don't  love  her,  it  is  true?" 

**  If  you  were  not  an  angel  you  would  know  that 
it  is  not  a  question  of  love.  But  if  it  annoys  you 
so  much  I  will  leave  Gemma.'* 

**  Do  so,  do  so,  my  son."  ^ 

*'  Nevertheless,  I  shall  soon  take  another.  And 
after  her  a  third  and  a  fourth." 

*' You  never  used  to  be  so,  sonny!  You  have 
never  before  said  such  things  to  me." 

Her  tone  w-as  so  sorrowful,  that  it  smote  the 
son.     He  half  raised  himself  in  bed,  exclaiming — 

*' It  is  true,  it  is  true,  mother!  But  there  is 
nothing  left  for  me  to  do  but  to  become  a  disso- 
lute." 


284  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

**  What  horror!'*  and  she  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

**A  horror,  is  it  not?  I  cause  you  horror,  my 
sainted  mother,  my  angelic  mother  !  See  to  what 
Hfe  has  brought  me.  A  great,  powerful,  and 
beautiful  love  has  only  lasted  a  short  time  with  me, 
and  has  left  my  heart  dead  to  every  fresh  ardour. 
Mother,  no  one  will  take  the  place  of  Maria  Guasco 
in  my  existence ;  she  has  been  all,  and  that  all  has 
descended  into  the  tomb.  Afterwards  I  tried  to 
attach  myself  to  an  idea,  to  a  sentiment,  to  a  loving 
duty,  but  the  creature  herself  for  whom  I  wished 
to  live,  for  whom  I  wished  to  fight  my  life, 
spurned  me  and  fled  from  me.  What  more  have 
I  to  do?  I  have  no  love,  I  have  no  affection,  I 
have  no  son,  and  I  have  no  family  risen  from  me. 
Nothing  remains  but  to  become  a  vicious  and  per- 
verse person,  to  allow  all  my  wicked  instincts  to 
pour  from  me ;  to  give  myself  to  women  and  play ; 
to  lose  my  fortune;  to  abase  my  name;  to  be  a 
trivial  pleasure-lover,  and  to  cause  you  horror,  my 
mother." 

Desperately  the  mother  took  him  in  her  arms, 
pressed  him  to  herself  and  kissed  him,  as  if  to 
defend  him  against  life  itself. 

"  You  are  good,  you  are  noble,  you  are  loyal, 
and  you  will  not  .do  this.** 

'  "I  used  to  be  that ! ' '  cried  the  son  desolately ; 
"and  I  deserved  the  love  of  Maria  Guasco;  and 
I  should  have  deserved  that  Vittoria  Fiore  knew 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  285 

how  to  love  me  and  become  happy  with  me  and  in 
my  dedication.  But  all  has  been  useless;  I  have 
been  broken  against  this  subtle,  pallid,  silent  and 
cold  shadow  of  a  woman.  If  I  want  to  live  I  must 
be  perverse  and  dissolute." 

"  No,  my  son,  no." 

"  There  remains  nothing  else  for  me,  mamma," 
he  repeated  desolately. 


IV 


**  Dress  me  quickly,"  said  Maria  to  Chiara 
distractedly. 

Chiara,  gave  a  glance  towards  the  balcony,  con- 
cealed by  the  white  lace  curtains,  but  said  not  a 
word.  The  dress  for  the  races  at  Tor  di  Quinto 
was  on  the  bed,  a  costume  of  bright  cream  voile, 
trimmed  with  a  sort  of  silver  lace,  with  a  large  belt 
of  silver  cloth,  and  a  large  black  hat  covered  with 
a  black  feather  held  by  an  antique  silver  buckle, 
together  with  a  very  fine  black  veil,  which  sur- 
rounded it  like  a  light  cloud.  Chiara  accomplished 
the  work  of  dressing  her  beloved  mistress  rapidly, 
without  talking.  Maria  seemed  wrapped  in  her 
thoughts,  and  mechanically  performed  the  succes- 
sive acts  by  which  a  lady  dresses  herself. 

**  Give  me  the  turquoise  necklace,"  she  said,  still 
distractedly. 

Chiara  went  to  the  cupboard  where  the  jewels 
were  kept,  and  took  a  bizarre  necklace,  in  peculiar 
twisted  gold,  embellished  with  large  turquoises. 

Maria  fixed  it,  still  mechanically.    Then  her  eyes, 

wandering  indifferently  and  uncertainly,  stopped  at 

the  balcony.     She  opened  them  wide,  as  if  at  an 

unexpected  spectacle,  and  listened. 

286 


USQUE    AD    MORTEM  287 

**  It  is  raining  in  torrents,*'  she  said  to  Chiara, 
surprised  and  gloomily. 

**  Dreadfully,"  replied  Chiara,  with  a  sigh. 

Maria's  hands,  which  were  fixing  her  hat,  fell 
back  as  if  tired. 

*'  Then  why  have  I  dressed?"  she  asked,  as  if  to 
herself,  with  an  accent  of  weariness  and  annoy- 
ance. 

**  Perhaps  it  will  stop  raining  in  a  little  while," 
said  the  faithful  creature  timidly. 

"You'll  see,  it  will  rain  the  whole  day!"  ex- 
claimed Maria,  discouraged. 

She  threw  herself  into  a  chair  as  if  a  sudden 
fatigue  had  mastered  her.  Her  face  had  the 
almost  infantile  sadness  of  disillusion,  and  with 
the  sadness  flowed  the  sense  of  a  tedium  ever 
greater,  while  the  pattering  rain  beat  upon  the 
pavement,  the  marble  balcony,  and  the  windows. 
Chiara  retired  discreetly  at  a  call  from  another 
part,  and  in  a  few  minutes  reappeared. 

*'  The  Principessa  della  Marsiliana  is  at  the  tele- 
phone, and  is  asking  for  Your  Excellency." 

With  a  great  effort  Maria  arose  and  crossed  the 
room  to  her  husband's  study.  The  study  was 
deserted  and  gloomy  with  its  almost  black  carved 
furniture  and  the  dark  maroon,  green,  and  red 
leather  of  its  chairs  and  sofas.  The  telephone  was 
there  in  a  corner. 

**  Well,  Carolina,  well?" 

**  No  one  is  going  to  the  races;  they  have  been 


a88  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

postponed.  What  a  pity!"  exclaimed  the  gentle, 
and  always  a  little  nervous,  voice  of  the  Principessa 
della  Marsiliana. 

**  Well,  then,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

*'  Since  it  is  raining,  later  on  I  shall  get  rid  of 
a  bothering  duty.  I  am  going  to  the  Sacro  Cuore 
at  Trinitk  dei  Monti,  to  visit  Guiglia  Strozzi's 
daughter,  who  is  ill.     Will  you  come?'* 

**  No,  thank  you.'* 

**  Then  what  are  you  going  to  do?*' 

**  Nothing;  the  usual — I  shall  bore  myself.  Au 
revoir,  Carolina.'* 

**  Au  revoir.  What  a  pity  !  I  had  a  beautiful 
dress.** 

*'So  had  I.     It  doesn't  matter.     Au  revoir." 

The  telephone  was  rung  off. 

Maria  remained  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
study,  looking  around  so  uncertainly  and  fleetingly 
that  it  seemed  as  if  she  was  almost  seeking  help. 
Her  eyes  directed  themselves  to  the  chair  which 
Emilio  used  behind  the  writing-table,  and  she 
almost  seemed  to  be  looking  for  some  one.  But 
suddenly  she  silently  recrossed  all  the  rooms  she 
had  first  crossed,  and  re-entered  her  room,  where 
Chiara  was  replacing  all  the  things  in  the  cup- 
board. 

*'  Would  you  like  to  take  off  your  dress.  Excel- 
lency?" she  asked. 

**  No,  it  tires  me,"  replied  Maria  exhaustcdly. 

She  only  took  off  her  hat,  drawing  out  the  two 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  289 

pearl-headed  pins,  and  consigning  them  to  Chiara. 
The  rain  poured  incessantly  and  noisily. 

Once  more  Maria  made  a  gesture  of  indecision, 
looked  at  her  watch,  and  shook  her  head  dis- 
couragedly. 

It  was  only  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Oa 
that  Sunday,  with  the  rain  falling  for  nearly  an 
hour,  not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard  in  the  streets; 
not  a  step  or  a  shadow  came  to  break  the  silence 
or  populate  the  desert  of  Casa  Guasco. 

"  Do  you  want  me  any  more?"  asked  Chiara. 

Maria  hesitated  for  a  minute,  almost  as  if  she 
wished  to  ask  that  human  being,  that  living  crea- 
ture, who  was  her  servant,  to  remain  with  her  to 
keep  her  company;  but  she  felt  ashamed  of  her 
moral  wretchedness,  and  a  motive  of  pride  coun- 
selled her  to  immerse  herself  in  solitude. 

**  No,  you  may  go,"  she  replied. 

Quite  alone  she  passed  into  her  boudoir,  which 
was  very  light,  papered  and  furnished  in  an  almost 
white  stuff,  with  bunches  of  pale  roses  and  soft 
green  grasses,  with  frames  of  pale  gold,  and  a 
carpet  of  light  yellow,  with  cushions  of  a  very  pale 
colour.  With  its  exquisite  taste  toned  to  -the  sur- 
roundings, in  that  sunless  afternoon  and  incessant 
rain,  the  room  seemed  like  that  of  a  person  dead 
for  a  long  time,  like  a  room  uninhabited  for  a  long 
time.  Maria  sat  down  in  her  usual  arm-chair, 
placed  her  feet  on  a  buffet,  and  leaned  her  head 
against  a  cushion,  letting  her  arms  fall  and  closing 
19 


290  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

her  eyes  to  allow  all  the  mortal  tedium  of  her  soul 
to  expand,  to  allow  all  the  despair  of  her  heart  to 
cross  the  lines  of  her  beautiful  and  noble  counten- 
ance. 

Some  time  passed  thus.  Occasionally  the  rain 
diminished,  becoming  a  dull  noise  like  steps  in 
the  distance,  or  increased  with  a  pattering  as  if  a 
fresh  whirlwind  were  spreading  over  the  streets 
and  houses.  Maria  in  her  absolute  silence  started 
twice  and  raised  her  head,  stretching  her  hand 
towards  a  table.  She  took  up  a  book  bound  in 
soft  chamois  leather,  with  strange  designs,  and 
with  troubled  and  indifferent  eyes  glanced  through 
several  pages;  even  the  noise  of  turning  leaves  in 
the  silence  of  Casa  Guasco  caused  her  to  tremble. 
The  poet  whose  verses  she  was  slowly  reading  was 
of  all  the  most  sorrowful,  and  amidst  the  gloomy 
sadness  of  the  sky  and  earth,  of  that  house  and  her 
soul,  Maria  felt  the  ardent  and  powerful  words 
with  which  Sapho's  soul  takes  leave  of  life  spread- 
ing in  her  spirit.  Her  head  sank  on  her  breast, 
the  book  remained  open  on  her  knees,  and  she 
thought  bitterly  of  the  grand  lover  of  Mitylene,  to 
whom  everything  was  unprofitable  from  birth  till 
death,  save  her  lofty  genius,  which  love  had  not 
conceded  her;  shg  thought  of  the  most  sorrowful 
poet  of  all,  whose  bitterness  was  joined  in  that 
hour  to  her  own  bitterness,  of  Giacomo  Leopardi, 
to  whom  genius  had  not  even  conceded  love.  An 
obscure  anguish  closed  her  heart  in  the  profound 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  291 

silence  and  solitude,  in  that  mortally  long  hour  of 
boredom  and  sadness.  Her  hand  almost  involun- 
tarily touched  a  bell  concealed  behind  her  chair. 
After  a  moment  a  servant  appeared. 

*'  Has  the  post  been?" 

"Yes;  there  is  nothing  for  Your  Excellency." 

*'  Good;  you  may  go." 

She  was  expecting  no  letters  from  any  one.  But 
every  now  and  then  in  her  blackest  crises  of  moral 
abandonment,  of  ineptitude  to  live  or  act,  she 
began  to  desire  an  unknown  letter  written  by  an 
unknown  hand,  she  found  herself  desiring  an  unex- 
pected telegram,  where  might  be  contained  from 
destiny  the  secret  which  should  help  her  to  do 
something  with  her  useless  life  and  useless  days. 
While  the  time  passed  with  desperate  slowness, 
while  the  soft  persistent  rain  continued  to  fall  on 
Rome  and  envelope  it  in  a  grey  veil  of  mist  and 
water,  she  thought  that  there  were  not  so  many 
mysterious  letters  written  by  far-off  mysterious 
persons  containing  powerful  aid,  that  there  are  no 
unthought-of  telegrams  where  a  word  tells  the  way 
for  those  who  have  consumed  the  forces  of  passion 
and  goodness. 

With  a  second  familiar  gesture  she  took  a  large 
work-bag  of  heavy  material  from  a  basket,  lined 
with  white  silk  and  covered  with  pretty  little  bows 
of  ribbon,  and  took  out  an  embroidery  of  an  old- 
fashioned  kind,  with  slightly  archaic  colours,  of  a 
charming  and  rather  childish  design.     Her  beauti- 


292  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

ful  hands  sought  among  the  tangled  skeins  of  silk 
the  threads  suitable  for  the  continuation  of  the 
work,  and  began  to  pierce  the  piece  of  silk  with 
calm  and  regular  movement.  Two  or  three  times 
her  hands,  as  if  oppressed  with  fatigue,  dawdled 
over  the  embroidery,  and  she  placed  the  piece  of 
silk  on  her  knees;  two  or  three  times  a  sigh  full 
of  annoyance  and  impatience  escaped  her  breast, 
and  her  head  fell  back  on  the  little  cushion  in 
silent  exasperation ;  two  or  three  times  she  shot  a 
glance  round  her  of  anger  and  hate,  yes,  of  hate, 
but  mechanically  her  hands  resumed  the  embroi- 
dery. The  afternoon  light  began  to  be  obscured, 
the  corners  of  the  room  were  in  shadow^;  she 
had  to  stoop  over  her  work  to  continue  the  embroi- 
dery. 

Again  a  step  approached. 

It  was  the  servant  with  the  teapot  and  kettle. 
Without  speaking  he  drew  a  table  near  Maria's 
chair  and  placed  everything  there,  and  lit  ithe  spirit 
stove  beneath  the  little  kettle.  Then,  as  it  was 
getting  darker,  he  stretched  his  hand  towards  a 
large  pedestal  lamp  to  turn  on  the  electric  light. 

'•No,''  said  Maria. 

The  sound  of  her  voice  after  such  an  intense 
and  mortal  silence  surprised  her.  The  man  left. 
The  little  flame  alone  seemed  to  live  and  breathe, 
a  bluish  little  spirit  flame,  which  licked  the  bottom 
of  the  silver  kettle.  Maria,  with  her  hands 
stretched  along  her  person,  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on 


USQUE    AD   MORTEM  293 

that  poor  form  of  life,  a  little  passing  light  which 
was  consuming  itself,  a  little  form  of  passing  heat 
which  was  evaporating.  The  methodical  work  of 
preparing  tea  she  accomplished  in  half  obscurity, 
bending  over  the  table,  while  the  slight  noise  of  the 
rain,  with  which  the  afternoon  was  lapsing  into 
evening,  still  reached  her  ears.  While  the  warm 
beverage  smoked  in  the  little  china  cup,  she  smiled 
silently  with  immense  bitterness ;  for,  the  servant 
had  placed  two  cups  on  the  tray. 

She  threw  herself  back  in  her  chair,  crossed  her 
two  hands  behind  her  neck,  stretched  out  her  feet, 
closed  her  eyes  and  tried  hard  to  sleep,  at  least 
to  sleep  and  forget  her  useless  life;  her  useless 
days,  her  hours  of  empty  solitude,  of  savage  im- 
patience waiting  for  the  person  she  did  not  know 
who  w^ould  never  come,  waiting  for  a  deed  she  was 
ignorant  of  which  would  never  happen,  for  some- 
thing strange,  far  off,  unknown,  but  which  should 
be  living  and  let  her  live :  to  sleep,  at  any  rate, 
since  all  this  was  no  more  possible  when  one  has 
lived  and  loved  too  much ;  to  sleep  since  no  one 
comes  again  from  afar,  since  nothing  happens 
again  when  the  heights  of  good  and  evil  have  been 
touched,  and  one  has  descended  into  the  obscure 
valley  of  indifference  and  aridity. 

A  sudden  light  and  a  harsh  voice  aroused  her  at 
once  from  her  torpor.  Some  one  had  suddenly 
turned  on  the  electric  light,  and  was  before  her 
talking  harshly.     It  was  her  husband. 


294  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  Are  you  here,  Maria?" 

**  I  am  here,  as  you  see,"  she  replied  dully 

He  had  returned  suddenly  as  usual,  entering  the 
house  and  crossing  all  the  rooms  to  reach  her,  as 
if  he  always  wanted  to  surprise  a  visit,  a  secret 
colloquy,  or  the  furtive  scribbling  of  a  letter,  He 
was  still  in  hunting  costume,  with  his  maroon 
velvet  coat  spattered  and  discoloured,  a  big  waist- 
coat with  full  pockets  with  bone  buttons,  and  the 
breeches  stuffed  in  a  pair  of  dirty  rising-boots. 
Standing  there,  his  face  was  more  than  ever  gloomy 
and  distrustful,  on  his  temple  his  hair  was  com- 
pletely white,  which  threw  into  stronger  relief  the 
olive  darkness  of  his  face. 

*' What  are  you  doing  here,  Maria?" 

**  Nothing,"  she  replied  dully. 

*'  Were  you  sleeping?" 

**  I  have  dozed." 

**  Didn't  you  go  to  the  races  with  Carolina  della 
Marsiliano?" 

*'No;  it  rained.  The  races  have  been  post- 
poned." 

**  I  know.     I  was  told  on  entering  Rome.'* 

**  Ah  I  and  why  did  you  ask  me?" 

**  Just,"  he  replied  in  a  subdued  voice,  **  to  learn 
it  from  you." 

**  Ah  !"  she  exclaimed  evenly. 

The  soft  white  hand  played  nervously  with  the 
gilt  arm  of  her  chair,  but  the  woman's  closed  lips 
uttered  no  protest. 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  295 

"Have  you  had  tea?"  He  resumed  his  ques- 
tions in  the  same  cold,  suspicious  tone. 

*'  Yes.  Would  you  like  a  cup?  I  can  warm  it 
up." 

"  No,  thanks.  You  know  I  hate  tea.  Did  you 
have  it  alone?" 

"Alone!"  she  replied,  with  a  fleeting  smile  of 
bitterness. 

**  Hasn't  one  of  your  usual  courtiers  been?" 

"I  haven't  many  of  them,  and  even  those  few 
have  abandoned  me,"  she  murmured,  with  an 
accent  of  weariness. 

'*  Still  you  were  expecting  some  one?" 

*'I?"  she  said;  *'I?  No.  I  never  expect  any 
one." 

There  was  something  grievous  in  her  words 
which  the  man,  blind,  deaf,  and  insensible  to  other 
impressions  which  were  not  his  own,  did  not  notice. 

**  I  see  two  cups  here,"  he  pointed,  raising  his 
eyebrows. 

**  One  is  clean  !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  burst  of 
laughter  meant  to  be  jolly,  but  really  gloomy. 

*VYes;  but  the  servant  has  brought  two.  He 
must  know  something,  that  fellow;  when  I  am 
hunting  he  brings  two  cups;  he  is  bound  to  know 
something." 

"  Ask  him,  Emilio,  ask  him,"  she  said  gleefully, 
with  an  increasingly  mischievous  laugh. 

*' I  shall  do  it,  don't  doubt,"  he  said  harshly; 
**  but  all  the  servants  I  pay  here  adore  you  far  too 


296  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

much.  Hence  they  lie;  they  lie,  the  whole  lot  of 
them,  and  I  shall  never  know  all  the  truth." 

'*  Oh,  poor  Emilio!"  she  exclaimed,  pitying 
him,  but  without  any  tenderness. 

Emilio  Guasco's  eyes  blazed  with  anger;  for  an 
instant  his  face  became  almost  livid.  He  advanced 
with  his  heavy,  dirty  boots  on  the  delicate  carpet, 
and  in  a  vibrant  and  subdued  accent,  restraining 
himself  with  an  effort,  but  placing  in  every  word, 
pronounced  almost  through  his  closed  teeth,  all 
the  hidden  tempest  of  his  tortured  spirit — 

**  Tell  me  why  you  have  compassion  on  me? 
Why  ever  you  pity  me  ?  Do  I  seem  very  ridicul- 
ous to  you  ?  You  laugh  at  me  in  your  mind,  it  is 
true,  and  in  speaking  to  me  pretend  to  have  pity 
on  me.'* 

Maria  was  silent,  with  an  air  of  glacial  detach- 
ment on  her  face,  nor  did  she  deign  to  reply  to 
him.  He  sat  on  a  chair  near  her,  lowered  his 
head,  so  that  speaking  very  softly  she  could  hear 
him  well,  and  continued — 

"It  is  you,  you  know  it,  who  are  making  me 
ill  or  mad  :  you  have  no  right  to  laugh  at  me.  I 
have  no  right  to  accept  your  compassion.  You 
are  my  enemy.  I  am  sick  of  you,  of  your  presence, 
of  your  contact.  You  have  been  my  scourge.  I 
have  always  thought  everything  of  being  calm 
and  content,  if  not  happy.  You  appeared  in  my 
life,  anii  my  peace  has  b^en  destroyed  and  every 

joy." 


USQUE    AD   MORTEM  297 

She  leant  her  head  against  the  back  of  the  chair, 
on  the  little  cushion  in  the  form  of  a  heart,  kept 
her  lips  closed,  and  the  eyes  slightly  contracted, 
her  hands  on  the  arms  of  the  chair,  like  a  person 
making  a  great  effort  internally  to  restrain  herself, 
not  to  reply,  not  to  rebel,  to  listen  to  the  last  word 
of  what  was  thrown  in  her  face. 

"Yes,  it  is  so,"  he  added  fiercely,  but  sub- 
duedly;  "no  evil,  no  disaster,  could  devastate  my 
existence  worse  than  you.  It  would  have  been 
better  if  I  had  died  on  the  day  I  knew  you  " — and 
he  abandoned  himself  on  the  seat  heavily,  so  that 
it  cracked  beneath  his  weight. 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  looked  at  the  disturbed 
brownish  face  without  any  emotion,  and  that  great 
body  on  its  chair,  and  asked  quietly — 

"  Am  I  then,  Emilio,  as  you  say,  an  enemy  of 
yours?" 

He  started,  darted  a  contemptuous  glance  at  her, 
and  replied — 

"  Yes,  an  enemy  of  mine." 

"  Does  my  presence  exasperate  you?" 

"  It  exasperates  me;  that's  the  word  I" 

"  My  contact  causes  you  horror?" 

"You  know  it,"  he  replied,  looking  peculiarly 
at  her. 

Maria  understood  in  a  flash  to  what  Emilio  was 
alluding.  She  grew  pale,  and  then  blushed  vio- 
lently, her  eyes  for  a  minute  filled  with  tears  which 
offended   pride    placed    there,    and    which    pride's 


298  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

flame  absorbed  at  once.  The  injurious  word,  the 
ferocious  word  of  outrage,  which  was  about  to  be 
disgorged  from  her  lips,  the  mortal  horror  she  had 
had  of  her  husband  on  the  night  of  suffering  and 
pain,  in  which  he  had  wished  to  possess  her  only 
by  a  cruel  instinct  of  possession,  a  ferocious  in- 
stinct of  jealousy,  and  after  fleeing  from  her  like 
a  madman  she  had  nearly  died  of  shame  and 
sorrow;  the  word  which  would  have  expressed  her 
womanly  horror  she  had  the  extreme  pity  not  to 
pronounce.  Then  he  understood  by  that  face 
where  her  lively  expressions  were  depicted,  by  the 
eyes  which  had  nearly  poured  out  the  rare  and 
scorching  tears  which  her  wounded  pride  snatched 
from  her  soul,  by  the  quick  breathing  in  which  she 
seemed  to  have  repressed  her  cry  of  rebellion,  he 
understood  that  in  evoking  that  recollection  he  had 
made  the  disagreement  between  them  deeper  and 
more  invincible. 

"  I  loved  you — do  love  you  perhaps,"  he  mur- 
mured, almost  speaking  to  himself.  **  I  believe  it 
is  so.     But  your  contact  causes  me  horror." 

Every  time  he  repeated  the  phrase  fatal  in  its 
truth,  insulting  in  its  brutality,  he  made  a  material 
movement  of  repulsion.  Every  time,  too,  this 
expression  made  the  woman's  face  colour  in  an  im- 
petus of  anger.  Then  mastering  herself  with  the 
singular  courage  of  a  strong  soul,  she  answered 
him  with  a  proud  calmness. 

*'  Don't  delude  yourself,  dear  Emilio,  that  you 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  2go 

love  me;  love  is  quite  another  thing.  I  know  that. 
You  do  me  the  honour,  like  any  other  man,  even 
*now,  of  desiring  me;  that  is  all.  That  would  be 
very  flattering  to  me  if  this  desire  of  yours — in  fact 
it  would  be  very  simple,  very  common  and  quite 
trivial — were  not  overcome  by  the  horror  with 
which  my  desired  and  repugnant  person  inspires 
you.  Would  you  tell  me  why,  if  you  don't  mind — 
out  of  simple  curiosity,  my  friend,  nothing  else — I 
cause  you  horror:  now  why?" 

Gradually  Maria's  tone  became  more  disingenu- 
ous and  frivolous,  as  if  it  were  a  question  of  a 
fashionable  conversation  of  very  relative  interest, 
yes,  although  she  was  hearing  words  which  tor- 
tured still  more  her  throbbing  soul. 

Emilio  raised  his  eyebrows.  He  knew  quite 
well  how  much  more  intelligent,  finer,  and  braver 
Maria's  character  was  than  his,  and  how  he  had 
almost  struck  her  by  reminding  her  of  that  night 
of  violence  and  sorrow,  after  which  they  had  been 
divided  like  two  enemies.  Now  he  felt  he  was  in 
her  power,  which  was  loftier  for  defence,  and 
better  adapted  to  conquer  her  own  and  another's 
soul.  Not  attempting  to  wrestle  with  her,  as  with 
truth  itself  in  all  its  harshness  and  vulgarity,  he 
replied  in  a  low  voice  without  looking  at  her — 

**  You  cause  me  horror,  because  I  can't  forget." 

"What,  please?"  she  asked,  toying  with  'her 
emerald  rings. 

**  Your  betrayal;  your  flight  w^ith  Marco  Fiore; 


300  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

your  three  years'  life  with  him.  It  is  impossible 
to  forget  all  this,  and  this  recollection  scorches  mc 
like  a  red-hot  iron." 

**  Still,"  she  said,  with  some  disingenuousness, 
and  the  same  frivolity  in  which  she  had  kept  up 
the  conversation  politely  from  the  beginning,  *'  still 
you  desired  my  return  to  your  house.*' 

**  I  confess  it;  I  ardently  desired  it." 

*'  You  condescended,  then,  to  pardon  an  un- 
faithful wife,"  she  concluded,  with  a  gracious  and 
slight  smile,  a  conventional  smile  to  conclude  a 
worldly  discourse. 

"It  is  true,  I  pardoned  you,"  he  replied,  still 
more  gloomily:  "but  I  repented  of  it  at  once;  I 
repent  it  every  day." 

"You  think  you  made  a  mistake  ?'' 

"Much  more  than  a  mistake;  far  more  thaVi  a 
mistake  !"  he  exclaimed,  raising  his  voice  suddenly. 

She  motioned  to  him  courteously  with  her  hand, 
just  as  if  she  were  asking  him  to  talk  more  quietly 
in  a  room  where  music  was  being  played. 

"  I  committed  a  cowardice  in  pardoning  you. 
I  was  a  fool  and  a  coward.  Every  one  laughs  at 
me;  every  one.  You  yourself  will  laugh  at  me. 
There  couldn't  be  a  bigger  fool  or  coward  than  I 
was  on  that  evening." 

Again  she  grew  pale  and  blushed,  as  if  the  blood 
were  moving  in  waves  from  the  heart  to  the  brain, 
from  the  brain  to  the  heart. 

"  Do  you  curse  that  evening  ?"  she  asked  sUwly. 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  301 

**  I  curse  it  every  instant,  and  despise  myself 
for  my  mistake,  for  my  ineptitude,  for  my  weak- 
ness. Every  one,  every  one  is  laughing  at  me, 
who  have  been  dishonoured,  who  have  enjoyed  the 
dishonour,  and  retaken,  as  if  it  were  nothing,  the 
woman  who  inflicted  this  incancellable  dishonour 
on  me." 

**  Other  men  have  pardoned  like  you,"  she  said 
slowly,  and  somewhat  absorbed. 

**  Others !  others!"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly 
touched  on  the  bleeding  wound  of  his  heart,  '*  men 
different,  quite  different  to  me.  Perhaps  they 
were  perfect  cynics  :  I  am  not  cynic  enough,  and  I 
suffer  for  my  dishonour,  as  if  it  were  yesterday, 
as  it  were  to-day.  Or  perhaps  they  were  simple 
people.  I  also  am  not  simple  enough;  I  under- 
stand, I  know,  I  measure,  and  I  remember  every- 
thing. Perhaps  they  had  children,  these  men,  and 
it  was  necessary  at  any  cost  to  recompose  the 
family  :  we  have  no  children.  Or  perhaps  grave 
questions  of  interest  came  in  between;  money,  you 
know,  money  !  That  had  nothing  to  do  with  that 
stupid  cowardly  pardon  I  gave  you  that  evening; 
nothing.  Certainly,  certainly,  many  men  have  par- 
doned their  faithless  wives,  will  pardon,  and  are 
pardoning  them  for  so  many  reasons  and  causes; 
but  I  should  like  to  question  them  one  by  one,  as 
man  to  man,  alone  and  with  open  heart,  and  you 
would  see  the  reply  would  always  be  the  same  from 
however  many  of  them." 


302  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  That  is "  she  said  quietly. 

**  That  it  is  cowardice  to  pardon  this  offence;  that 
one  ought  not  to  pardon  betrayal  in  a  mistress, 
but  one  never  pardons  betrayal  in  a  wife." 

**  Is  that  your  idea?'* 

**  It  is  mine." 

**  When  you  pardoned  you  didn't  think  so.  Do 
you  believe  that  now  you  can  again  change  your 
opinion?'*  she  asked,  as  she  strove  in  vain  to  hide 
a  little  anxiety  in  the  question. 

*'  It  is  useless,"  he  replied  desolately,  **  I  know 
myself.  I  am  a  straightforw^ard  man.  I  can't 
change  the  idea  which  for  two  years  has  caused 
me  to  suffer  as  I  have  never  suffered.  I  am  too 
straightforward,  and  for  this  I  pity  you.  I  can't 
change;  when  one  is  a  man  like  I  am  one  can't 
pardon  dishonour  and  absolve  betrayal." 

She  lowered  her  eyes  and  said  no  more,  though 
she  seemed  very  calm  and  indifferent. 

*'Well?"  he  said,  questioning  her  anxiously. 

**Well?"  she  questioned  in  turn. 

**  Haven't  you  anything  to  say  to  me?'* 

"I?     No,"  she  replied  simply. 

*'  What  is  your  idea,  then  ?" 

**  I  have  none,"  she  added,  with  the  same 
simplicity. 

"None?  Nothing?  Does  nothing  of  this 
matter  to  you?"  he  cried,  surprised. 

"It  would  matter  very  much  to  me,  if  I  could 
bring  you  a  remedy.     Your  sufferings  once  moved 


USQUE    AD   MORTEM  30.^ 

me  very  much,  you  know,  and  I  believed  I  could 
cure  them.  I  have  not  succeeded.  You  haven't 
wished  to  know  me  as  a  consoler.  My  mission 
here  has  failed  completely.  Instead  of  doing  you 
good  I  am  doing  you  harm.  And  in  exchange  you 
load  me  every  time  you  can  with  expressions  of 
your  loathing  and  contempt.  What  is  to  be  done? 
There  is  no  remedy." 

"  If  you  had  liked,  there  could  have  been,"  he 
replied  in  a  low  voice. 

"Exactly,  exactly!"  she  exclaimed,  smiling 
ironically.  *'  I  ought  to  have  had  a  great  passion 
for  you.  That  was  necessary  for  your  jealousy 
and  amour  propre — a  great  passion;"  and  the 
smile  became  more  ironical. 

**  And  you  did  not  succeed?  Is  it  not  so?"  he 
cried,  trembling. 

*'  I  haven't  even  tried,"  she  replied,  seriously 
aind  nobly.  "  I  never  returned  for  that,  I  never 
promised  it;  I  couldn't  give  it." 

**  Then  it  would  have  been  better  not  to  have 
returned;"  and  the  man's  fury  increased. 

*'  It  would  have  been  better,"  replied  the  woman 
still  more  austerely. 

"  It  would  be  better,  then,  for  you  to  go  away," 
cried  the  man,  blind  with  fury. 

**  It  would  certainly  be  better,"  she  said  austerely 
and  finally. 

She  rose  from  her  seat,  crossed  the  room,  and 
disappeared. 


The  long,  strident  whistle  of  the  large  white 
steamer,  the  Vierwaldstettersee^  had  already- 
sounded  twice  in  a  vain  appeal.  The  little  landing- 
place  at  Fluelen  was  deserted.  Every  day,  from 
the  beginning  of  July  to  the  middle  of  September, 
a  varied  crowd  had  arrived  from  Italy  by  the  trains 
which  cross  the  wonderful  Gothard  route,  and 
from  Switzerland  especially,  for  familiar  excur- 
sions to  Tellsplatz  and  Altdorf,  to  take  their 
places  on  the  boat  to  cross  to  the  winding  flowery 
shores  of  the  lake  of  the  four  cantons,  to  the  large 
and  small  summer  stations,  and  to  the  little  villages 
gleaming  white  among  the  trees  with  their  red 
roofs.  But  now  no  longer.  It  is  October;  the  last 
travellers  one  by  one  have  returned  to  their  homes, 
and  Fluelen  is  deserted.  The  white  steamer,  too, 
has  been  deserted  for  a  long  time,  and  performs  a 
journey  of  obligation  on  a  deserted  lake  among 
deserted  shores. 

However,  a  third  call  sounded  longer,  more 
stridulous  and  melancholy.  A  single  traveller  left 
the  Hotel  de  la  Poste,  directly  opposite  the  land- 
ing place,  and  approached  the  gangway  with 
leisurely  steps.     He  was  still  a  young  man,   tall 

304 


USQUE    AD    MORTEM  305 

and  slender,  dressed  not  only  neatly  but  fashion- 
ably. Beneath  his  hat,  which  was  lowered  over 
his  eyes,  could  be  noticed  a  handsome  though 
slightly  delicate  physiognomy,  a  face  a  little  too 
pale,  with  very  black  hair  and  moustaches,  lips 
still  fresh  and  vivid,  and  extremely  soft  eyes  of  a 
fascinating  softness;  but  in  general  the  features 
resulted  in  firmness  and  perhaps  in  obstinacy. 

An  expression  of  indifference,  and  sometimes 
even  of  intense  boredom,  passed  over  his  face.  A 
few  paces  behind,  the  hall-porter  followed,  carrying 
two  large  portmanteaux  and  a  travelling-bag.  The 
traveller  crossed  the  gangway  alone,  and  walked 
to  the  stern  of  the  steamer,  where,  wet  with  moisture, 
the  flag  of  the  Swiss  Confederation  was  hanging. 
He  sat  alone  on  one  of  the  side  benches,  and  slowly 
lit  a  cigarette,  while  the  porter  deposited  the 
luggage  a  little  way  off. 

**  How  long  to  Lucerne?'*  he  asked,  tipping  the 
man. 

**  Two  and  a  half  hours,*'  replied  the  man, 
thanking  him. 

The  steamer  had  now  left  the  bank,  the  pilot 
was  at  his  wheel  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  horizon, 
trying  to  penetrate  the  mist  which  was  spreading 
and  growing  thicker.  The  pilot  was  a  robust  little 
man,  firmly  planted  on  two  short  legs  encased 
in  black  oilskins,  which  seemed  saturated  with 
humidity.  His  face  was  broad  and  rugged  beneath 
a  black  cap  with  a  peak.  For  a  little  time  he  was 
20 


3o6  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

the  traveller's  only  companion,  who  still  sat  on 
the  bench,  lighting  one  cigarette  after  the  other, 
looking  at  the  country  now  wrapped  in  clouds,  now 
manifest  through  the  broken  edges  of  the  mist 
with  black  and  rugged  rocks,  with  great  stretches 
of  snow  in  the  clefts  of  the  mountains,  and  in  the 
far-off  whiteness  of  the  glaciers.  But  the  glance 
which  he  threw  around  from  time  to  time  gave  no 
sign  either  of  curiosity  or  interest,  the  signs  to  be 
discovered  were  those  of  a  vague  weariness,  of  a 
persistent  boredom,  above  all  of  a  resigned  and 
calm  indifference. 

The  Vierivaldstettersee  threaded  its  way  through 
the  grey  waters.  The  white  foam  broke  against 
the  paddle-box,  and  the  wake  stretched  behind 
through  the  mist  which  seemed  to  be  following  the 
white  vessel.  Not  a  human  voice  sounded  on  deck 
beneath  the  two  large  awnings  from  bow  to  stern. 
The  first  station  came  to  view  with  its  little  houses 
on  the  bank  among  trees  already  bare,  among  little 
gardens  where  the  flowers  were  dead,  and  where 
the  chairs  were  bathed  in  moisture.  The  houses 
had  their  doors  and  windows  closed,  affording  a 
glimpse,  behind  the  tiny  panes,  of  some  little  plant 
drawn  in-doors  by  a  provident  hand,  so  as  not  to 
let  it  perish  like  the  other  plants;  but  not  a  person, 
not  a  voice,  issued  from  the  houses  and  gardens 
of  the  little  square  before  the  landing-place.  The 
Crown  Hotel,  a  little  in  the  background,  was 
hermetically  closed.    With  a  precise  and  methodical 


USQUE    AD   MORTEM  307 

movement  a  man  from  the  steamer  threw  a  rope  to 
another  man  on  land,  who  had  suddenly  appeared, 
and  bound  it  to  a  large  wooden  pile.  The  steamer 
stopped  for  some  minutes,  while  the  whistle 
sounded  stridulously  and  in  vain.  The  two  men 
exchanged  almost  empty  bags  containing  the  mail. 
After  having  whistled,  the  Vierwaldstettersee  started 
again  amidst  the  grey  mist,  quite  covered  with 
moisture  on  its  outerwork,  brasses,  sails  and  ropes, 
and  dripping  moisture  from  all  sides.  Every 
quarter  of  an  hour  or  twenty  minutes  the  halts 
were  repeated,  with  the  whistling,  the  throwing 
of  the  rope,  and  the  exchange  of  mail  bags,  with- 
out ever  a  traveller  coming  on  board.  Gradually 
the  solitary  traveller  had  sunk  at  his  place,  ceasing 
from  smoking,  his  gloved  hands  buried  in  the 
pockets  of  his  ulster,  his  head  fallen  on  his 
breast,  and  he  himself,  like  the  sky,  the  landscape, 
like  the  lake,  and  the  steamer,  seemed  wrapped  in 
the  greyish  mist,  now  of  opaque  silver,  now^  trans- 
parent. 

When  half  the  voyage  was  over  the  steamer 
whistled  twice  and  much  longer  on  nearing  a 
station,  and  another  man  in  uniform  appeared  on 
deck  from  below,  as  well  as  a  waiter,  both,  like 
everything  else,  enveloped  in  moisture.  The 
traveller  seemed  to  be  dozing,  since  he  never  turned 
his  head  on  seeing  the  deck  populated  with  these 
two  persons.  The  station  was  Vitznau,  that  village 
so  crowded  and  so  brilliant  and  pleasant  in  summer. 


o 


08  AFTER    THE    PARDON 


It  is  the  village  whence  the  Rhigi  is  climbed,  and 
is  well  known  to  every  tourist.  Even  Vitznau,  with 
its  group  of  denuded  trees  on  its  gloomy  bank,  its 
two  closed  hotels,  and  its  solitary  funicular  station, 
did  not  seem  different  to  the  other  stations  touched 
at.  Only  while  the  man  threw  the  rope  from  the 
deck,  and  the  other  man  of  that  place  mechanic- 
ally tied  it,  a  woman  appeared  on  the  landing- 
place  coming  from  the  little  funicular  station. 
She  was  tall  and  elegant,  in  spite  of  the  long 
travelling-cloak  which  completely  covered  and  en- 
veloped her.  With  a  quiet  step  she  crossed  the 
gangway,  climbed  the  few  steps,  presented  her 
ticket  to  the  man  in  uniform,  and,  walking  on 
deck,  sat  down  on  the  bench  opposite  to  the 
other  traveller.  The  man  in  uniform,  while  the 
steamer  was  drawing  away  from  Vitznau  on  its 
course  to  Lucerne,  approached  her  and  asked  her 
something,  which  she  refused  with  a  nod  of  her 
head,  and  after  a  minute  the  waiter  came  up  with 
a  question,  and  she  answered  him  in  the  same 
way.  Both  the  man  in  uniform  and  the  waiter 
disappeared  below. 

It  was  rather  difficult  to  discover  the  new  travel- 
ler's face  through  her  veil,  and  for  some  time  she 
kept  her  head  towards  the  lake,  gazing  at  it.  Then 
she  turned  towards  the  steamer.  Her  glance  wan- 
dered round  and  fixed  itself  on  the  traveller 
opposite  so  intensely,  that  he  seemed  to  wake  from 
his  dream  and  shake  himself  from  his  torpor.     He 


USQUE    AD   MORTEM  309 

looked  at  the  new  traveller,  looked  at  her  much, 
and  looked  at  her  long.  They  were  quite  alone  on 
the  steamer,  which  was  sailing  like  a  phantom  ship 
upon  a  lake  of  dreams  and  sadness,  amidst  the 
incomparably  mournful  clouds.  The  man  got  up 
and  crossed  the  deck  decidedly.  He  bowed  deeply, 
remaining  uncovered  before  her. 

**  Are  you  alone,  Maria?" 

*'  Alone,  Marco;  and  are  you  alone?" 

*'  Most  alone." 

Their  voices  were  calm,  but  so  tired. 

"May  I  sit  beside  you,  Maria?"  he  askel^, 
almost  supplicatingly. 

"  Yes,  do,"  she  replied,  with  a  nod. 

He  placed  himself  beside  her.  Lightly  and 
gently  he  took  her  gloved  hand  and  pressed  it  be- 
tween his  for  a  minute,  placing  it  to  his  lips.  She 
bent  her  face  just  for  a  minute.  The  boat  went 
on ;  the  pilot  fixed  his  eyes  still  more  sharply  on 
the  mist,  because  it  was  getting  late  and  the  grey 
of  sky  and  lake  was  becoming  darker  and  even 
threatening. 

*'  I  didn*t  know  that  you  were  travelling  in  these 
parts,"  he  said,  trying  to  discover  her  face  through 
her  veil. 

**  Nor  I  that  you  were,  Marco,"  she  murmured. 

Each  looked  at  the  other  at  the  same  moment, 
as  if  they  were  about  to  say  the  same  word  to 
express  the  same  idea  thought  by  both,  which  each 
left  unpronounced. 


310  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

**  Have  you  been  travelling  for  some  time, 
Maria?"  he  asked,  after  a  few  minutes'  silence. 

"  For  more  than  three  months,  Marco,'*  she 
replied  wearily. 

"Always  alone?" 

**  Always." 

"And  where  have  you  been,  Maria,  always 
alone?     Tell  me  everything,  please." 

Marco  questioned  her  with  penetrating  sweet- 
ness, in  which,  however,  weariness  was  mixed. 

*'  I  have  been  everywhere,"  she  replied,  and  he 
seemed  to  notice  a  tremor  in  her  voice,  "every- 
where. One  can  go  to  a  good  many  places  in 
three  months." 

"  That's  true,"  he  added;  "  I  started  before  you 
from  Rome,  a  couple  of  months  before." 

"  I  know,  Marco.  I  was  told  so.  Have  you 
always  been  alone  on  your  journey?" 

"  Like  you,  always." 

"  Have  you  no  regret  for  those  you  have  left 
behind?"  she  asked  in  a  still  sadder  accent. 

"  I  have  regret,"  he  confessed,  "  for  one  person 
only,  Maria." 

"  For  one  only?" 

"  Always  for  the  same  person,  for  her  of  former 
days,  for  her  of  always — for  my  mother,"  and  a 
rush  of  tenderness  and  sorrow  pulsated  in  the 
words. 

She  placed  her  hand  on  his  arm  quickly  for  a 
moment  without  speaking,  to  calm  him. 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  311 

**  Still  I  have  left.  I  am  far  away,  and  I  don't 
want  to  return  !"  he  exclaimed  impetuously. 

**  Don't  you  wish  to  return?  Don't  you  wish 
to?"  and  the  accent  had  suddenly  become  spas- 
modical. 

*'  I  don't  wish  to,"  he  rejoined  gloomily,  with 
decision. 

She  shook  her  head  sorrowfully,  and  looked 
ahead  among  the  fleeting  clouds  which  were  rising 
from  the  still  waters,  as  if  asking  the  secret  of  the 
riddle  from  those  waves  of  vapour  w^hich  were  clos- 
ing in  on  the  horizon.  The  prow  of  the  Vierwald- 
stettersee  was  directed  to  the  last  station,  towards 
a  little  place  on  the  bank,  where  an  occasional 
tree  was  still  in  foliage,  where  among  woods  and 
meadows  the  white  houses,  with  their  red  roofs  and 
little  windows  full  of  flowers,  did  not  seem  so 
deserted  and  dead  as  the  others.  Two  children, 
dressed  in  thick  woollen  as  a  protection  against  the 
Swiss  autumn,  were  playing  outside  the  inn. 

**  Maria,  Weggis,"  said  Marco,  almost  in  her 
ear. 

**  Yes,  Weggis,"  she  replied  quietly. 

Slow^ly  she  raised  her  white  gauze  veil  over  the 
rim  of  her  hat,  showing  her  graceful,  melancholy 
face,  enchanting  in  every  line,  from  the  thought- 
ful, proud,  and  yet  sw^eet  eyes,  to  the  expressively 
sorrowful  and  fresh  mouth ;  showing  the  face  w  hich 
love  had  exalted  to  an  invincible  beauty,  which  love 
had  deserted,  leaving  there  all  the  serene  sadness 


312  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

of  things  long  dead,  and  all  the  proud  melancholy 
of  a  brief,  too  brief,  passion.  Marco  looked  at 
the  face  without  its  veil,  and  she  looked  at  him 
with  her  expression  of  calm  sadness,  finding  in 
him  singularly  the  same  expression — a  death  in 
life,  a  love  dead. 

*'  Weggis,*'    he    murmured,    with    melancholy, 
while  the  boat  drew  further  away  towards  Lucerne. 

**Weggis,"    she   murmured,    with   ever  greater 
melancholy. 

The  image  of  the  little  flower-laden  spot,  where 
they  had  lodged  modestly  one  very  hot  summer 
in  passionate  solitude,  seemed  far  away  amidst  the 
autumn  mists.  It  grew  distant,  and  disappeared 
among  the  things  of  the  past,  of  time,  and  of 
space,  like  their  love  had  vanished.  The  gloam- 
ing was  already  descending  to  render  the  clouds 
browner  and  closer;  already  a  colder  and  more 
penetrating  breath  of  air  struck  the  two  travellers 
and  caused  them  to  shudder.  A  line  of  lights,  lit 
for  the  approaching  evening,  stretched  itself  in  the 
background,  indicating  the  quay-side  of  Lucerne, 
and  in  the  twilight  the  massive  and  bizarre  build- 
ings of  hotels  and  villas  grew  whiter.  Side  by 
side  the  two  travellers  looked  at  the  lights,  and 
mechanically  rose  from  their  place  to  leave  the 
Vierwaldstettersee ,  which  had  already  reached  the 
pier.  The  conductor  of  the  omnibus  of  the  Hotel 
National  took  Marco's  luggage,  and  after  an 
exchange  of  words  in  a  low  voice  threw  it  on  to 


USQUE    AD   MORTEM  313 

the  omnibus  and  drove  off  with  it.  The  two 
travellers  remained  on  a  bench,  bathed  in  moisture, 
silently  seized  by  all  that  was  in  their  souls.  They 
w-ere  undecided  and  rather  confused.  At  last 
Maria  exclaimed,  making  an  attempt  to  get  away, 
*'  Good-night,  Marco." 

"Where  are  you  going?'*  he  asked  sadly  and 
anxiously. 

**  Up  there;**  and  she  pointed  to  a  little  hill 
with  her  finger. 

"Where  then?** 

**  To  Sonnenberg;  I  have  been  there  for  two 
wrecks,"  she  added. 

"  Won't  you  stay  a  little  with  me?*'  he  begged 
anxiously. 

"O  Marco,  don't  ask  that!*'  she  exclaimed, 
turning  her  head. 

"  Maria,  Maria,  remain  a  little,"  he  said  in  his 
tender  voice.  "  What  does  a  little  time  matter  to 
you,  Maria?     What  does  it  matter?" 

She  recognised  that  voice  of  a  former  time,  the 
voice  of  moments  of  desolation,  the  voice  which 
formerly  asked  succour  when  his  soul  had  need 
of  comfort;  but  it  was  not  the  voice  of  love  but  of 
sorrow. 

**  I  am  so  wretched,  and  you  mustn't  leave  me 
this  evening.*' 

She  consented  with  a  nod.  Together  in  the 
evening's  shade,  through  the  cold  dampness  which 
arose  from  the  water,  through  the  roads  where  no 


314  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

passer-by  made  his  appearance;  over  the  bridge, 
dripping  in  moisture,  under  whose  arches  the  doves 
were  sleeping ;  on  the  promenade,  no  longer  shaded 
by  the  luxuriant  foliage  of  the  trees;  among  the 
lights  distorted  by  the  mist,  they  went  towards 
the  large  hotel,  which  also  seemed  abandoned  for 
some  time  with  its  hundred  closed  windows,  with 
its  flowerless  gardens,  with  its  iron  seats  on  which 
no  one  seemed  to  have  sat  for  years.  The  large 
hall  was  lit  by  a  single  electric  lamp.  Maria 
remained  standing,  looking  through  the  windows 
vaguely  without  seeing  anything,  while  Marco  was 
discussing  with  the  secretary.  In  that  brief 
moment  the  woman  saw  Marco  again  as  he  used 
tp  be,  when  for  months  together  they  proceeded  on 
their  pilgrimage  of  love,  and  she  marvelled  that, 
ever  since  they  had  met  on  the  deck  of  the  boat, 
he  had  been  able  to  accomplish  the  same  acts; 
she  marvelled  that  in  all  their  actions  they  had 
been  as  formerly  while  their  souls  were  so 
changed. 

'*  Come,  Maria,"  Marco  said,  approaching  her. 

How  often  she  had  heard  that  invitation  !  She 
smiled  strangely  as  she  followed  him,  while  they 
went  up  in  the  lift  and  entered  a  sitting-room, 
w^hich  was  immediately  illuminated.  The  waiter 
silently  opened  a  door  on  the  right  and  a  door  on 
the  left,  while  they  appeared  not  to  notice. 

**  You  would  like  some  tea,  wouldn't  you, 
Maria?  it  is  so  cold,"  Marco  asked  in  the  gentle 


USQUE    AD   MORTEM  315 

insinuating  voice  she  recognised  in  all  its  modula- 
tions. 

Maria  smiled  in  consent.  She  drew  a  chair  to  the 
table  and  sat  down.  She  untied  her  veil  and  drew 
out  the  pins  from  her  hat,  undid  the  hooks  of  her 
travelling-cloak  and  appeared  in  a  close-fitting 
dress  of  pale  mauve,  with  the  usual  string  of  pearls 
at  the  neck,  which  she  never  left  off.  Marco  fol- 
lowed her  with  his  eyes,  and  recognised  again  in 
Maria  the  woman  he  had  so  often  seen  make  those 
quiet  harmonious  gestures.  However,  he  felt  that 
only  the  movements  and  the  words  were  the  same, 
but  not  the  ideas  and  sentiments.  But  he  ex- 
pressed no  surprise  at  it. 

*'  Give  me  a  cup  of  tea,  dear  Maria,"  he  said, 
speaking  softly.  She  took  off  her  gloves,  poured 
out  the  tea  and  gave  him  a  cup  with  a  smile. 

*'  Where  is  Sonnenberg,  Maria?"  he  said. 

*'  Over  there,  Marco,  on  the  hill." 

*'  How  does  one  get  there  ?" 

'*  It  is  a  few  minutes  by  the  funicular.'* 

**  It  must  be  rather  a  sad  place,  Maria?" 

*'  Yes,  it  is  a  little  sad,"  she  murmured,  raising 
her  hair  with  her  fingers. 

"  Any  people  there?" 

'*  Oh,  no;  four  of  five  persons  besides  myself." 

*'  Do  you  bore  yourself  there,  Maria?" 

**  A  little,  as  everywhere." 

**  Are  you  going  to  stop  there?" 

**  Yes,  I  think  I  shall  stop  there." 


3i6  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

•'How  long?" 

*' I  don't  know;  I  know  nothing,  Marco,"  she 
said,  with  a  slightly  pained  expression. 

"When  will  you  return  to  Rome?"  he  asked, 
with  a  greater  anxiety  than  he  wished  to  show. 

"  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know  at  all,"  she  replied 
monotonously. 

"  Still,  still  .  .  .  you  have  somebody  there." 

''Somebody^''  she  repeated,  underlining  the 
word,  "  prefers  my  absence  to  my  presence." 

"  Really;  is  it  really  so?"  Marco  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  with  an  expansive  gesture 
of  her  hands. 

"  Have  you  left,  Maria?" 

*'  I  have  left.  After  having  commented  bitterly 
and  brutally  on  my  departure,  somebody  let  me 
go  free  and  alone  without  asking  my  itinerary, 
without  asking  me  when  1  was  returning.  It  is 
true  he  was  tormented  by  my  flight,  but  relieved 
that  I  had  left  alone.  He  was  tortured,  I  believe, 
by  the  idea  of  not  seeing  me,  of  not  being  able 
to  injure  me,  of  not  being  able  to  throw  my  past 
in  my  face,  but  in  fact  content  that  I  was  far 
away." 

"And  you,  Maria?" 

"  I?"  she  exclaimed  harshly;  "I?  Probably  I 
shall  never  return  again.  Why  should  I  return? 
I  have  nothing  to  do  there  lor  the  good  of  any 
one.  I  can  only  do  evil  there  to  others  and  myself. 
Certainly,  Marco,  I  shall  never  return — never." 


USQUE    AD   MORTEM  317 


91 

y 


"  Emilio  will  summon  you ;  he  will  want  you 
he  said,  with  agitation. 

*'  No,"  she  declared  harshly,  '*  he  has  driven  me 
out." 

**  Driven  you  out,  Maria?" 

**  Not  once,  but  many  times,  in  moments  of 
violence  and  coldness  he  said  it  would  have  been 
better  if  I  had  never  returned.  Certainly,  certainly, 
Marco,  I  shall  never  return  there.  I  shall  go  and 
live  alone  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  earth,  and  I 
shall  die  there." 

She  spoke  with  vehemence  and  harshness,  but 
still  subduedly;  he,  too,  spoke  to  her  in  the  same 
subdued  way.  Their  faces  were  pale  and  strained. 
An  immense  silence  reigned  in  the  deserted  summer 
town  and  the  equally  deserted  huge  hotel.  The 
flames  flickered  in  the  grate  and  the  logs  crackled. 

*' Are  you  so  unhappy,  Maria?"  he  said,  taking 
her  hand  tenderly. 

"  So  unhappy,  really  so  unhappy.  I  dare  not  kill 
myself ;  and  why  should  I  ?  I  should  be  ridiculous 
and  grotesque.  I  am  ashamed  to  kill  myself.  I 
have  nothing  to  do  with  my  life,  really  nothing." 

''You  were  a  magnificent  lover,  Maria!"  he 
exclaimed,  with  infinite  regret. 

"A  soul  of  love  like  you,  Marco,  a  heart  of 
love,"  she  replied,  with  the  same  regret. 

''  We  should  have  died  when  our  love  was  over, 
Maria,"  Marco  said. 

"  That  is  true;  we  ought  to  have  died  then.     We 


3i8  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

missed  a  beautiful  death,  Marco,"  replied  Maria 
gloomily. 

**  Now  it  is  too  late  to  die,  too  late." 

'*  It  is  too  late." 

They  were  silent,  with  all  the  weight  of  their 
cold,  arid,  useless  lives,  which  was  weighing  down 
their  souls,  with  all  the  enormous  weight  of  a  dead 
love,  dead  after  having  done  all  the  good  which 
had  vanished  with  it,  dead  after  all  the  evil  which 
was  still  living. 

**  Are  you  going  to  stop  at  Lucerne?"  asked 
Maria  at  last  dreamily. 

**  A  day  or  two;  no  more,"  he  replied,  as  if 
awakened  from  a  dream. 

**  Where  shall  you  go?" 

**  To  far-off  countries.  To  Holland,  and  Den- 
mark, always  to  the  countries  furthest  off." 

**  Why  don't  you  stay  in  Rome?"  she  asked. 

**  Not  to  debase  myself  under  your  eyes,  Maria," 
he  replied  seriously.  '*  There  is  nothing  left  but 
vice  for  me,  and  I  am  ashamed  to  defile  that  which 
you  have  loved." 

•*  Your  wife,  Vittoria.     What  of  her?" 

"  She  is  with  my  mother." 

**  Surely  she  suffers  by  your  absence?" 

**  Possibly;  less,  however,  than  she  does  by  my. 
presence." 

"Why  did  she  suffer?" 

**  I  suppose  she  suffered;  but  she  has  never  told 
me  she  did,  she  never  showed  me,   and  I   have 


USQUE    AD   MORTEM  319 

never  seen  her  tears.  She  always  repulsed  any 
consolation  of  mine  for  this  supposed  suffering  of 
hers.'' 

**  Poor  Vittoria,*'  murmured  Maria. 

*'She  certainly  deserves  pity,''  replied  Marco 
coldly;  *'but  she  repulses  it." 

"  Still  she  deserved  happiness." 

*'  Certainly;  but  she  repulsed  happiness,  because 
she  is  not  capable  of  being  happy." 

'*  Why  did  you  fly  from  her?" 

'*  So  as  not  to  hate  her,  Maria;  so  as  not  to  curse 
my  marriage  day  as  that  of  my  slavery." 

*'  Are  you  sure  that  you  have  done  all  your  duty 
as  a  man,  as  a  friend,  as  a  companion  to  Vittoria?" 

**  I  am  sure  of  it.  I  have  done  beyond  my  duty 
as  a  man,  a  companion,  and  a  friend.  But  she 
didn't  want  that,  she  demanded  that  I  should  be- 
come her  lover." 

"And  couldn't  you?" 

"No,  Maria,"  he  said  seriously,  "you  know 
very  well,  you  ought  to  know  very  well,  that  I 
couldn't." 

"  When  shall  you  return  to  Rome?" 

"  I  shall  never  re-enter  Rome." 

"Are  you  in  exile,  then?" 

"  It  is  exile  without  any  time  limit." 

"  And  your  mother?" 

"  I  shall  see  her  at  Spello  where  Vittoria  does  not 
go,  and  she  will  come  to  Florence.  It  is  very  sad, 
but  there  it  is." 


320  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

''And  you?" 

"  If  I  were  poor  I  should  set  to  work  to  do  some- 
thing with  my  faculties  and  time.  Unfortunately 
I  am  not  even  poor.  A  dissolute  life,  since  I  have 
loved  you,  fills  me  with  horror." 

**  We  are  two  miserables,  Marco,"  she  concluded 
gloomily;  "  far  away  in  Rome  there  are  two  others 
more  miserable  than  we  are,  and  neither  you  nor 
I  can  do  anything  for  them." 

"  Neither  you  nor  I  can  do  anything  for  them,*' 
he  replied,  like  a  dull  echo. 

"No  one  can  do  anything  for  any  one,"  said 
Maria  desperately. 

All  that  was  colossal  and  indestructible  in  the 
fatality  of  existence,  in  its  mysterious  and  rigorous 
laws,  weighed  upon  them.  In  their  youth,  in  their 
strength  and  beauty  they  felt  lost  and  blind,  unable 
to  die  and  unable  to  live,  groping  in  the  shadows, 
their  breasts  full  of  sighs,  and  their  ears  closed 
to  the  cries  of  the  two  who  were  suffering  alone 
and  abandoned  in  Rome.  They  felt  themselves 
incapable  of  being  comforted  and  giving  comfort, 
and  they  felt  as  well  that  their  burning  tears  were 
useless,  just  as  the  tears  of  the  two  in  Rome  were 
as  equally  useless  and  unconsolable. 

The  woman  rose  pale  and  upright. 

"  I  am  going,  Marco,"  she  said. 

"Can't  I  accompany  you,  Maria?"  he  begged 
desolately. 

**  No,  remain  here.     Let  me  go." 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  321 

**  Shan't  I  see  you  to-morrow?" 

**  Why  do  you  wish  to  see  me?"  she  asked  in 
a  tremulous  accent. 

**  To  see  the  face  of  a  friend,  to  hear  the  voice 
of  a  friend,  not  to  feel  myself  so  lonely  and  lost, 
to-morrow  more  than  ever." 

**  O  Marco,  wouldn't  it  be  better  for  us  not  to 
see  each  other  to-morrow?"  she  asked,  trembling 
still  more. 

'*  No,  Maria,  no.  You  need  to  see  me,  you  are 
so  lonely  and  lost.  I  will  look  for  you  to-morrow; 
and  do  you  promise  not  to  fly  from  me?" 

A  trembling  seized  her,  which  made  her  almost 
hesitate. 

**  Maria,  promise  that  you  won't  fly  from  me, 
only  then  will  I  let  you  go?" 

**  I  promise,"  she  replied  weakly. 


21 


VI 

On  the  morrow  a  keen  and  pungent  wind  had 
rid  the  lake  of  all  the  vapours  and  clouds,  which 
had  robbed  the  hills  and  mountains  of  their  lines 
and  colouring.  The  sky  only  was  covered  with  a 
closely  fitting  veil  of  clouds.  It  was  a  sky  quite 
white,  curving  from  the  zenith  to  the  horizon  be- 
hind the  mountains  in  an  immovable  whiteness. 
Beneath  this  immense  inanimate  whiteness  the  ice 
of  the  far-away  peaks  seemed  whiter,  and  the 
summits  blacker  and  more  rocky.  Every  now  and 
then  a  gust  of  wind  crossed  the  quiet  streets  of 
Lucerne,  and  passed  over  the  waters  of  the  lake, 
causing  long,  shuddering  ripples,  while  a  flight  of 
pigeons  wheeled  round  the  arches  of  the  bridge. 
At  the  landing-stage  the  steamer  was  whistling  on 
its  departure  for  Fluelen. 

It  was  still  early  when  a  carriage  brought  Marco 

Fiore  to  Kriens,   the  last  suburb  of  Lucerne,   at 

the   foot   of   the   Sonnenberg   funicular.     He   had 

the  appearance  of  a   man   who   had   slept  badly. 

Only    one    other    person    took    his    place    in    the 

carriage,  a  German  or  perhaps  a  Lucernese,  who 

placed  himself  in  a  corner  and  began  to  smoke  a 

322 


USQUE    AD    MORTEM  323 

short  pipe.  The  conductor  rang  his  bell  and 
whistled  twice  in  vain ;  there  were  no  other  passen- 
gers for  Sonnenberg  than  Marco  and  the  man  with 
the  pipe. 

The  large  and  rather  melancholy  hotel  at  Sonnen- 
berg is  a  few  paces  away  from  the  station.  Marco 
directed  himself  to  the  porter  who  was  seated  in  the 
empty  vestibule,  as  deserted  as  the  garden  he  had 
just  passed  through.  Donna  Maria  Guasco  had  just 
gone  out,  the  man  said,  as  she  usually  did  every 
morning,  towards  Gutsch,  indicating  the  way  with 
his  hand ;  then  he  added  in  a  very  German  French, 
that  it  was  a  fairly  long  walk.  Scarcely  listening 
to  him,  Marco  set  off  through  a  broad  wooded  path. 
He  walked  without  looking  before  him  with  lowered 
eyes,  completely  wrapped  in  his  thoughts,  with- 
out meeting  any  one,  without  looking  at  the  land- 
scape, almost  without  seeing  where  he  was  going. 
Every  now  and  then  the  wind,  which  was  freshen- 
ing, caused  the  trees  to  rustle  with  an  almost 
human  sound,  beating  on  Marco's  face,  and,  pass- 
ing on,  it  grew  weaker  without  disturbing  his 
thoughts.  He  had  lost  vcount  of  the  time  he  was 
on  the  way.  At  last  at  a  corner  he  read  on  a 
post,  **  Gutsch,"  indicated  by  a  white  arrow  on 
a  blue  ground.  He  took  the  turning  for  some 
fifty  steps,  and  then  stopped  silent  and  surprised. 

He  found  himself  in  a  strange  wood,  formed  of 
tall,  colossal  trees,  whose  height  the  eye  could  not 
gauge.    The  trunks  of  the  trees  were  round,  thin, 


324  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

and  devoid  of  branches  to  a  considerable  height, 
like  the  stems  of  bronze  candlesticks ;  then  the  leafy 
branches  mounted  up  so  intricately  and  thickly, 
hiding  the  sky,  that  an  invincible  gloom  reigned 
in  the  wood.  The  tall,  colossal,  upright  trees, 
growing  so  close  together,  seemed  innumerable,  and 
rose  in  two  lines  along  a  very  straight  path 
in  the  middle,  which  lost  itself  in  the  calm,  sad 
gloom,  which  the  rays  of  the  sun  seemed  unable  to 
penetrate.  Never  had  a  wood  seemed  so  strange 
and  lugubrious  to  Marco's  wondering  eyes,  never 
had  he  breathed  an  air  so  still  and  sepulchral,  and 
never  had  he  noticed  a  silence  so  profound  and 
gloomy.  On  either  side  of  the  path  the  dried 
leaves  were  scattered,  of  every  colour  from  light 
yellow  to  dark  red,  but  their  colour  had  merged 
into  one  in  that  darkness  of  the  tomb.  A  sense 
of  tragic  and  fatal  horror  conquered  his  heart  while 
he  advanced  under  the  ominous  trees,  like  dismal 
funeral  candles,  in  that  wood  without  the  song  of 
birds,  without  the  perfume  of  flowers  and  the  sun's 
rays.  Terror  surrounded  him,  and  he  seemed  to 
be  walking  towards  his  strange  destiny,  towards 
the  wooden  seat  beneath  a  bronze  tree  trunk, 
where  Maria  was  seated  and  looking  at  him  as  he 
approached  with  sad  but  sweet  eyes. 

"This  wood  is  horrible,  Maria!"  he  exclaimed 
a  little  petulantly,  as  he  sat  down  beside  her. 

"Yes,  it  is  horrible,"  she  replied,  looking 
around,   "but  I  come  here  every  day  to  Jet  my- 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  325 

self  be  taken  by  its  strong,  calm  horror.  I  think 
that  dead  people  must  be  here,  and  nobody  knows 
of  it." 

**  Dead  of  love,  or  sorrow,  or  indifference,"  he 
added,  looking  around,  believing  himself  a  prey  to 
an  hallucination. 

"  Or  perhaps  they  had  enough  of  life." 

"Everything  could  have  happened  here,"  he 
continued  dreamily,  "  a  bloody  duel,  a  murder 
ignored  by  all,  a  suicide  which  no  one  knew  of. 
Doesn't  it  cause  you  horror,  sweet  Maria?" 

'*  Life  is  more  difficult  than  death,"  she  replied, 
shaking  her  head. 

He  took  her  hand,  covered  with  a  white  glove, 
and  with  a  slow,  familiar  action  took  off  the  glove 
and  kissed  her  fingers  and  palm  two  or  three  times. 

*'  Maria,"  he  said,  ''  I  have  thought  much  during 
the  night.  At  first  I  was  seized  by  a  mortal  dis- 
quietude, and  I  wanted  to  get  up  and  leave,  to  look 
for  you  in  the  night.  Then  little  by  little  I  entered 
into  a  great  peace,  because  I  saw  our  way." 

**  Our  way?"  she  asked  in  agitation. 

**  Ours,  Maria.  It  is  the  only  way,  and  there  is 
no  choice  but  for  you  and  me  to  follow  it." 

"  What  are  you  saying,  Marco?"  she  exclaimed, 
getting  up. 

With  a  gracious  and  tender  action  he  made  her 
sit  down  again. 

"  I  say  that  we  ought  to  live  together  till  death," 
he  declared. 


326  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

"Without  love,  Marco?  Without  love?"  the 
woman  cried,  and  such  an  utter  hopeless  bitterness 
was  in  the  cry. 

"  Yes,  without  love,"  he  continued  courageously; 
'*  the  great -flight  and  flame  of  our  passion  is 
extinguished,  it  is  true,  but  the  tender  reflections 
can  still  weakly  illuminate  the  shadows  where  we 
have  lived;  even  the  rays  of  the  heat,  whose  flame 
no  longer  exists,  can  rarefy  the  cold  which  is 
conquering  us." 

"  You  don't  love  me,  Marco!"  she  cried. 

**  I  don't  love  you  with  passion,  and  I  ought  not 
to  deceive  you ;  neither  of  us  will  ever  lie  to  the 
other.  But  you  have  been  the  chosen  woman  of 
my  heart,  the  only  intense  dream  of  my  life.  You 
have  been  my  perfect,  only  love.  If  the  taber- 
nacle is  closed,  if  the  idol  has  vanished,  the  soul 
has  in  its  memory  the  recollection  of  a  unique 
adoration." 

"  But  I  don't  love  you  !"  she  cried,  convulsed. 

**  Yes,  I  know  that  you  don't  love  me  with  pas- 
sion. But  I  know  that  I  have  a  beautiful  and 
unforgettable  place  in  your  heart.  I  have  been 
your  only  lover.* 

He  spoke  with  a  desperate  sadness  in  his  eyes 
and  face,  in  every  expression  and  gesture. 

•'  Is  it  true,  that  I  am  dear  to  you,  Maria?" 

**  It  is  true,  as  you  say,  you  are  dear  to  me," 
she  replied  desolately, 

Marco  drew  her  to  himself  and  kissed  her  on  the 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  327 

lips  chastely.  She  returned  the  kiss.  But  to  both 
the  kiss  seemed  to  have  the  savour  of  death. 

*'  Let  us  live  together  till  death,'*  he  resumed 
sadly. 

"Together,  Marco,  together?  To  reunite  when 
we  no  longer  have  love  as  the  excuse  of  our  be- 
trayal, nor  passion  as  an  excuse  for  the  sorrow 
we  are  inflicting  on  others!     Why?    Why?'* 

"  Because  nothing  else  remains,"  he  said  deso- 
lately. 

**  Is  there  really  nothing  else,  Marco?"  she 
cried,  wringing  her  hands. 

**  Really,  Maria,  nothing  else.** 

**  And  that  unfortunate  at  Rome?  That  unfor- 
tunate Emilio?  What  has  he  done  to  be  so  dis- 
graced? And  why  must  I  bring  about  his  mis- 
fortune?** she  cried,  with  a  sob,  hiding  her  face 
in  her  hands. 

**  Pity  him;  let  us  pity  him,**  said  Marco;  **  he 
is  an  unfortunate.'* 

**  He  will  curse  me.*' 

**  He  will  be  right  to  curse  you,  but  he  will  also 
be  wrong.  All  are  right  and  all  are  wrong  con- 
fronted with  love,  Maria." 

'*  And  Vittoria  ?  Vittoria  ?  the  unlucky  Vittoria  ? 
What  will  become  of  her?  What  will  she  say  of 
me?  Marco,  think,  think,  what  a  horrible 
business !" 

**She  will  curse  us  justly,"  resumed  Marco, 
with  deep  sadness;  "  she  will  be  right,  like  Emilio, 


328  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

to  curse  us,  but  confronted  with  love  she  will  be 
wrong." 

*'  Who  will  console  Vittoria,  Marco?" 

*'  I  have  tried  to  console  her,  but  she  despised 
my  consolations.  Like  all  exigent  people  who  ask 
too  much  from  life,  Vittoria  has  only  gathered 
delusion  and  bitterness." 

"  You  promised  her  everything." 

*'  I  offered  her  everything,  and  she  repulsed  it. 
What  she  demanded  was  not  in  my  power,  will 
never  be  in  my  power,  and  I  shall  never  see  her 
again." 

*' Who  will  console  and  comfort  Emilio?" 

**  He  is  a  man ;  he  will  forget  you." 

'*And  Vittoria?" 

**  Religion  will  be  able  to  do  much  for  her.  She 
will  forget  me." 

**  But  Emilio  and  Vittoria  were  not  expecting 
this  from  us  and  from  existence." 

"The  fault  isn't  mine,  and  isn't  ours.  If  we 
are  to  blame  we  did  it  for  one  supreme  and  in- 
vincible reason,  which  is  love." 

"My  God!  my  God!"  she  kept  on  lamenting, 
sobbing  without  tears. 

"  There  is  nothing  else  for  us  to  do,  but  to  live 
together  till  death." 

"Nothing  else?  Nothing  else?  Suppose  we 
were  to  try  again  ?     Suppose  we  were  to  return  ?" 

The  voice  was  as  desperate  as  the  proposal. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  try  again,  Maria?"  he 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  329 

asked,  with  infinite  desolation;  "do  you  wish  to 
go  to  your  husband  who  hates  and  loves  you? 
Do  you  wish  to  give  yourself  to  him  who  is  horri- 
fied at  what  you  did?  Do  you  wish  instead  to 
stop  in  your  home  as  a  stranger  and  an  enemy? 
Do  you  wish  to  live  and  give  yourself  to  him,  as 
a  courtesan  whom  he  pays  and  despises  ?  Do  you 
wish  to  live,  if  you  refuse  yourself  to  him,  in  an 
inferno  ?  To-morrow  he  will  hate  you,  and  you 
will  be  forced  either  to  fly  again  ridiculously  or 
become  the  lover  of  Gianni  Provana,  and  after- 
wards of  another  Gianni  Provana,  descending  to 
every  abyss  to  make  something  of  your  life." 

*' No,  no!"  she  cried,  at  the  height  of  moral 
nausea. 

"How  can  I  try  again  with  Vittoria?  Must  I 
return  and  fall  at  the  feet  of  my  wife,  simulat- 
ing a  passion  I  do  not  feel?  Must  I  play  a 
comedy,  I  who  despise  a  lie?  Could  I  ever  take 
my  wife  in  my  arms  like  you  ?  Oh,  she  knows, 
perhaps,  and  understands;  at  any  rate  she  would 
soon  understand,  that  I  was  lying  and  deceiving 
her.  Do  you  know  that  I  inspire  her  with  repul- 
sion ?  Do  you  know  that  she  neither  wants  me 
as  a  husband,  a  companion,  or  a  friend  ?  Do  you 
know  that  she  wants  me  as  a  lover  ?  Can  I  be  the 
lover  of  Vittorin,  Maria?  I  can't,  there,  I  can't  I 
If  I  returned  to  Rome,  if  I  re-entered  Piazzo  Fiore, 
I  should  only  make  Vittoria  more  unhappy.  In 
desperation  I  should  hurl  myself  into  conviviality. 


330  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

You  can't  wish  the  death  of  your  dignity,  nor  I 
that  of  my  honour." 

**  It  is  true,  it  is  true!"  she  exclaimed,  falling 
back  in  the  seat  as  if  about  to  faint. 

"  Courage,  courage,  Maria,"  he  said  sweetly. 

A  great  silence,  a  great  shadow^,  an  ineffable 
solitude  was  around  them  in  that  funereal  wood. 

"But  couldn't  we  go  on  as  w^e  did  up  to  yester- 
day, each  in  our  own  way?"  she  asked  in  a  weak 
voice. 

"Where,  where,  Maria?"  he  asked,  with  the 
shadow  of  a  melancholy  smile. 

"  I  don't  know  .  .  .  anyw^here  .  .  .  everywhere," 
she  said  vaguely,  "each  our  own  way,  as  up  to 
yesterday." 

"  We  met  yesterday,"  he  said  sweetly. 

"  Let  us  separate  to-day  and  resume  our  way." 

"  We  should  meet  to-morrow."  And  his  voice 
was  very  sweet  and  sad. 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Marco?     Do  you  think  so?*' 

"It  is  fate.  Maria,  it  was  fate  our  meeting 
yesterday;  our  fate  would  be  meeting  to-morrow. 
A  will  which  we  are  ignorant  of,  which  is  outside 
us,  which  acts  on  us  while  it  is  foreign  to  us, 
has  reunited  us  yesterday,  and  would  reunite  us 
to-morrow.     Let  us  accept  it,  Maria." 

"  But  what  is  this  will,  Marco?"  she  said,  seized 
by  a  sudden  fear. 

"Maria,"  he  said  gravely,  "you  know,  you 
have  known,  that  passion  is  outside  the  usual  limits 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  ^31 

of  life,  you  have  known  and  seen  that  it  forces 
souls  and  persons  beyond  all  laws  and  duties,  be- 
yond all  vows.  You  have  seen  and  known  that  it 
exalts  and  multiplies  life.  Well,  Maria,  I  believe 
that  when  once  the  ordinary  limits  of  life  have  been 
passed  over,  it  is  extremely  difficult  to  turn  back. 
T  believe  that  when  duties  are  forgotten,  vows  un- 
loosed, laws  broken,  it  is  extremely  difficult  for 
people  to  re-enter  the  social  orbit,  to  resume  their 
proper  place,  and  to  repair  their  conscience.  I 
believe  that  for  a  life  which  has  touched  the 
heights  of  passion,  it  is  impossible  to  descend  to 
the  great,  cold,  silent  depths." 

All  that  he  said  was  reflected  sadly  in  its  truth 
and  irreparableness. 

"Then,**  she  interrupted,  **  then  whoever  has 
sinned,  in  punishment  for  his  sin  must  continue  to 
sin." 

**  Yes,  Maria;  sin,  but  without  fascination.  Sin 
is  a  punishment  in  itself.  I  believe,  I  am  sure,  that 
this  is  punishment." 

A  heavy  silence  fell  upon  them.  The  woman's 
head  was  bowed,  and  she  had  crossed  her  hands 
over  her  knees.  There  was  not  a  breath  of  air  in 
that  atmosphere  of  a  cemetery. 

**  At  home  they  will  say :  *  She  always  loved 
him,  and  always  lied  in  denying  that  she  loved 
him:  " 

**  They  will  say  that,"  admitted  Marco  sadly. 

**  Your  wife  will  say  so,    Marco,"    Maria  con- 


332  AFTER   THE    PARDON 

tinued  monotonously,  ***  Marco  never  forgot  her, 
and  always  lied.^  " 

**  Certainly  she  will  say  that." 

"  And  it  will  all  be  false,  Marco,  because  we 
shall  be  again  without  passion,  without  love,  with- 
out rapture.'* 

''That  is  so,  Maria.*' 

**  Shall  we  rehearse  our  comedy  together, 
Marco,"  she  asked  mournfully — "the  comedy  of 
love?  Couldn't  we  live  like  two  companions,  like 
two  friends?  Say,  couldn't  we  live  so,  at  least 
without  lying?" 

"No,  dear,  no,"  he  resumed,  with  a  weak, 
sorrowful  smile,  "  it  isn't  possible.  You  are  a 
woman  ;  I  am  a  man.  We  are  still  young.  What 
you  say  is  impossible." 

"O  Marco,  without  love?"  she  murmured, 
turning  her  head  aside  in  shame. 

He  was  silent,  feeling  that  she  was  right.  But 
he  could  not  deceive  her. 

"  Even  this,  dear  lady  mine,  is  a  punishment." 

"O  Marco,  Marco!"  she  cried,  leaning  her 
head  on  his  shoulder,  and  hiding  her  face  in  his 
breast. 

He  pressed  her  to  himself  sweetly,  and  kissed 
her  on  the  eyes,  which  were  red  without  weeping, 
and  upon  her  pale  face  and  lips. 

*'  At  last,"  he  said,  *'  we  shall  find  some  sweet- 
ness in  this  expiation.  My  arms  know  you,  Maria, 
and  my  breast  is  a  haven  for  you.     I  know  your 


USQUE   AD   MORTEM  :^33 

arms,  and  I  know  I  can  sleep  peacefully,  if  not 
ecstatically,  on  your  heart.'* 

**The  days  will  be  long  and  silent/'  she  mur- 
mured, rising,  passing  her  arm  under  Marco's,  as 
they  went  down  the  straight  path  together. 

'*  Yes,  Maria,"  he  replied. 

*'  Our  souls  will  do  nothing  but  secretly  regret 
that  which  is  no  more." 

"  Yes,  it  is  true,  Maria." 

"  Happy  we  shall  never  be  again." 

"  Never  again,  Maria." 

'*  And  so  we  shall  go  on  till  death,  Marco,"  she 
concluded,  with  an  accent  of  infinite  melancholy. 

**  Together,  Maria." 

**  Towards  death." 

**  Step  for  step  together." 

They  w^ere  in  the  deepest  part  of  the  gloomy 
wood,  like  an  immense  tomb,  amidst  the  thousand 
bronze  candelabra,  which  seemed  to  have  been  lit 
for  something  great  that  was  dead. 

*  *  *        '    «  »  « 

Marco  entered  the  room  where  Maria  was  wait- 
ing for  him,  reading  a  book.  She  lifted  her  eyes 
with  a  slightly  melancholy  smile. 

**.  .  .  m'aimes?''  he  asked  in  a  puerile  way,  in 
French. 

*'.  .  .  Vaimey^^  she  replied  colourlessly. 

He  kissed  her,  and  she  returned  the  kiss. 

"...  toujours?''  she  asked. 

**.  .  .  ioujours^'*^  he  replied. 

1 


334  AFTER    THE    PARDON 

Their  words  and  actions  were  the  same  as  of  a 
former  time,  which  were  born  again  from  the 
memory  of  their  senses,  re-born  in  an  exterior, 
strange  form  to  them.  Their  souls  were  full  of 
inconsolable  regret,  their  hearts  of  inconsolable 
grief. 


THE  END 


THE  STUYYESANT  PRESS,    Publishers, 
SU  Fifth  Abenue  JVnw  York 


THE 

Tree  of  Knowledge 

A   DOCUMENT   BY 
A   WOMAN 


The  woman  who  dissects  her  soul  in  these  vibrant  pages 
is,  so  far  as  can  be  judged,  entirely  frank. 

This  is  not  her  only  merit,  for  her  delight  in  the  flexibility 
of  language  lends  an  exotic  charm  which,  like  the  scent  of 
orchids,  fatigues  and  delights  the  sense. 

Her  diary  is  **not  for  little  people  nor  for  fools."  It  is 
a  document  to  be  studied  with  scientific  curiosity  by  those 
whose  interest  lies  in  sounding  the  hidden  depths  of  human 
character. 

12mo.  Cloth.  Price  $1.50. 


Cynthia  in  the  Wilderness 


A   NOVEL   BY 

HUBERT  WALES 


In  this  story  Mr.  Wales  has  taken  for  his  theme  mother 
view  of  the  sex  problem. 

Cynthia  is  a  woman  of  exceptional  attractiveness,  mentally 
and  physically.  In  her  married  state  she  finds  herself  in  the 
delicate  position  of  an  intensely  human  Venus  placed  upon  a 
pedestal  of  marble  deference  by  a  husband  of  intemperate  and 
decadent  proclivities. 

There  is  a  broad  realism  pervading  the  story  ;  it  is  strong 
and  poignant,  yet  it  is  straightforward  psychology  presented 
with  an  undeniable  skill. 

12mo.  Cloth.  Price  $1.50. 


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THE  YOKE 

A   NOVEL   BY 

HUBERT  WALES 


This  is  a  story  of  the  delicate  problem  which  confronts 
the  sexes:  the  moral  attitude  and  welfare  of  men  and  women. 
The  author  has  chosen  an  infrequently  considered  phase,  and 
has  dared  to  treat  it  graphically. 

The  characters  are  strong,  attractive  and  always  interesting. 
The  problem  of  which  the  story  treats  is  vividly  and  fearlessly 
laid  before  the  reader.  A  more  subtle  insinuation  of  the  ques- 
tion may  have  been  possible,  but  the  author  has  felt  that  there 
can  be  no  indelicacy  in  a  straightforward,  serious  discussion  ot 
an  existing  evil   condition. 

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Mr.  &  Mrs.  Villiers 

A   NOVEL   BY 

HUBERT  WALES 


Man  is  naturally  the  aggressor  in  the  connubial  relations. 
His  desires  and  passions  are  more  positive  than  woman's. 
Women  of  unusual  mental  and  physical  charms  are  often  found 
renitent  and  lacking  in  the  disposition  which  makes  for  perfect 
conjugal  happiness.  Such  women  have  little  difficulty  in  marry- 
ing, although  entirely  unfitted  for  the  marriage  relation.  Mrs. 
Villiers  is  a  woman  of  this  type. 

The  story  is  a  fair  and  legitimate  study  of  opposite 
temperaments.  It  is  intensely  realistic,  and  the  difficult  problem, 
which  is  by  no  means  rare  in  real  life,  has  been  handled  with 
dignity  and  with  such  restraint  as  not  to  offend. 

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